


One Small Hitch

by texadian



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Light Smut, Mentions of Cancer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-11 09:25:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5622076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/texadian/pseuds/texadian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly's mother, who she hasn't spoken to in years, reaches out to her when she is diagnosed with terminal breast cancer. Feeling like she has let her mother down, Molly lies about an engagement, previously ended, and disguises it with the first name of a man that comes to mind —William. Little does she know, her mother and sister have been planning to stay in London during the chemo and would like to meet the man that's captured Molly's heart. With all the favours Sherlock owes her, she can't help but ask for just one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Small Hitch

**Author's Note:**

> I have to admit, a bulk of this piece was finished near the end and I have to thank my beta, May, for helping me to the last day. 
> 
> Also, to my cheerleader Sara, who helped me hash the plot out in the beginning. 
> 
> And others who I've bothered with such small insignificant details that I couldn't move forward without fixing. 
> 
> Artist:

The choice of vending machine snacks is even more appalling in the oncology ward than her usual one outside the lab.

“I wouldn’t trust anything but the gum,” a voice says from behind her.

Molly presses D5 regardless and waits for the coiled spring to drop her packet of biscuits.

“Or you can test your luck with those,” he continues, trying to be witty, possibly even casual.

It doesn’t work for him.   
“Where were you?” She questions, spinning around before she has time to collect her snack.

His eyes remain trained on hers, but no words leave his mouth. She doesn’t let him off the hook just yet and breaks eye contact only to squat and pick her snack out of the bottom tray.

“I had something to attend to.”

She gives him that look— the one that says she’s not buying it.

“Someone to attend to,” he amends.

A solitary brow perks up, but it is not in surprise, merely astoundment that he’s still pressing on with this story of his.

He looks as if to go on, when she opens her bag of biscuits, crumpling the paper to mask his voice. It does a piss-poor job, but her point is made. He lets her walk by him and over to a row of conjoined waiting room chairs. They’re older, with 70s style orange fabric and green legs that curve around and meet at the back. She takes a seat in one at the far end by the window and looks out over the hospital car park below.

“Sit down, will you?” she finally breaks the silence, as he continues to loom over her like her own personal rain cloud.

“You’re not going to listen,” he states, answering a question no one has posed.

“You should still sit down. It could take a while.”

He eyes her untouched Digestives, open in her lap, before taking a seat beside her.

“You really shouldn’t eat those,” he warns again.

Molly shrugs and tosses back two stale chocolate covered ones. There’s a loud snapping sound as both biscuits break in half in her mouth. They’re clearly past date, but Molly doesn’t seem to mind.

Somewhere between now and 6 weeks ago, she’d stopped caring about the expiration year. Instead, she’d chosen only to pay attention to the first two sets of numbers.

The bag in front of her reads _13 10 2013_  —she'd be fine. It is after all, only June —2014 being completely irrelevant.

The year before had been a dark one for Molly. Only a bleak glimpse of light had come in the form of a man she was no longer engaged to. Maybe her bout of bad luck was the reason why Molly wasn’t expecting anything better to happen this time around—surely not anything connected to her past.

  


_Late April_

 

In the months following her breakup with Tom, Molly had let go of her need to find someone new. This wasn't to say that she wasn't looking, but it was more back to the point of familiarity —the draw of a familiar face. Had she made a mistake with an old boyfriend or maybe one that she'd never given a chance on?

It was tempting to revisit old relationships. All of their small, yet very significant flaws, melted away from her consciousness. Break-ups were disastrous on fresh wounds, but worked miracles for every faded bruise and healed bone. They were her thick rose coloured glasses, shielding Molly from the truth. And this was where Meena came in. She was her filter, refilling every vacant file on every man that had come and gone in her life. He was nice — _he nicked your credit card_ . We had fun — _he was always high_ . We had great chemistry — _you never actually left the bedroom_.

It’s after a rather grueling day at work and infuriating conversation with Sherlock on invasion of privacy, that she receives a call on her mobile —three missed calls in fact.

“Molly,” the voice on the other end speaks sweetly before she’s even said hello.

“Hi Mum.” She makes a terse smile, thankful that her mother can’t detect false excitement over the phone. “Calling so soon?”

Mrs. Hooper makes a loud tutting sound and repeats Molly’s name over and over again until Molly’s protests go quiet.

“Mum,” she tries again. “I just meant that you usually call in May… On my birthday.”

“A mother can call her daughter when ever she pleases, Molly. Am I not allowed to care? To know how my daughter is doing?” she asks in one long breath.

“Well you already know Laurie is doing fine,” Molly bites, under her breath.

“Molly,” Mrs. Hooper reprimands, before inhaling deeply. “How is the hospital? Save anyone today?” She produces a gruff laugh at her own joke and finishes off with an unsettled hum.

“I’m a pathologist, Mum.”

“I know, they’re already dead. Bad joke.”

Molly clears her throat. “Actually, my work goes on to help those that are still living.”

“Yes, yes. The doctors save the people and the medical companies provide the tools for the doctors to save those lives and the fishermen provide the food for those company employees and the fish are all completely oblivious of their central role in the healthcare system.”

“Well…”

“And you’re on the other side, completing the circle.”

“Mum, there’s no circle. My research goes directly back to the medical community.”

There’s a pause and Molly knows she’s done it again; she’s recreated the separation. A horrible sinking feeling overtakes her. Images of her dad in the hospital come rushing back and she’s inside the ICU room, taking in everything his doctors have to say. And then there’s her mother, standing on the other side of glass, peering in like an outsider, trying to understand words so foreign, they’re quite possibly from an alien language.

“So how is Meena? Is she still with that doctor?” her mother continues, disrupting the reel.

“Meena is fine Mum. And no, they broke it off last Halloween.”

“Oh, that’s quite a while ago.” By the time the words leave her mother’s mouth, there’s a different connotation to them altogether.

“Yeah, they only dated for 6 months.”

“‘Tis not bad. Not all relationships are built to last…” Mrs. Hooper trails off.

There’s a long pause, a stretch of silence forewarning that next question both ladies know is coming.

“Speaking of which, are you seeing anyone now, Molly?”

She can hear her mother’s lips smacking together in anticipation, but all she can think about is Tom. Her eyes glance down to her hand, almost expecting the ring to be back. Not as a godsend however, but a weight, holding her back.

She doesn’t know what spurs it, what provokes the lie —possibly the ever growing clicking sound from her mother’s mouth or the sigh of disappointment that is sure to follow.

“Yes, I am. His name is… William. He’s nice,” she cuts off, picturing an entirely different man than her previous fiancé. Her hand is over the receiver as she takes a deep breath. “He’s odd, actually, but odd is different. Odd is good.”

* * *

 

The clicking stops as Mrs. Hooper switches the mobile to her other hand, relieving the strain on her arm.  

“Well I suppose you’re made for each other then, eh?” she tuts once more with her tongue, before clearing her throat.

“Yes. I ‘spose so,” Molly replies.

“So you two are serious?” There’s a sudden jump in excitement —energy Mrs. Hooper didn’t know she had in her.

Molly hums discretely in reply.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Mrs. Hooper leans forward in her chair and tucks one leg under her bum.

“I’ve had boyfriends before, Mum. It’s not-”

“-How long?”

“Together?”

“Yes!” She chortles in giddiness.

“10 months.”

“Do you live together?”

“Mum!”

“What?” Mrs. Hooper huffs.

“It’s only been 10 months. Of course we don’t.”

“But you stay over, right?” Mrs. Hooper raises her brow with a sly smile. She’s just cheeky enough for Molly to pick it up.

“Sometimes. He comes over. Stays the night. He needs the space.”

“From you?” Mrs. Hooper asks confused.

“No! From work.”

“What’s he do?”

“I don’t have time to talk about this right now, Mum,” Molly proclaims. “I have to be up early for work tomorrow.”

“Oh. Okay.” Mrs. Hooper leans back in her chair, coddling the phone between both hands as she holds it close to her face. “We’ll speak later?”

* * *

 

Molly sighs. “Yes. Definitely.”

“All right. Good night. I —I love you. Talk soon.”

“Night Mum,” Molly tries to say, before the call ends.

A dead silence envelops the room. Molly hates it. She feels the distance even more, now that her voice is the only one left. Her fingers twirl her phone for a minute, before dropping it to her lap. There’s something off about the conversation. Not the the prodding questions or the queasy feeling she gets in her stomach, but the end of it. Their usual goodbyes are short, blunt, to the point  —never is there mention of future conversations and certainly no professions of love.

Molly tries to shake the feeling, but she can’t help but linger on those final words.

“I love you too, Mum,” she utters to her quiet flat, before flicking on the tv and lying down to fall asleep.

* * *

 

There’s a hum from the radio as Laurie cleans up in the kitchen at her mother’s house in Bath. The dial hasn’t been tuned into an actual station since they finished supper, but the unsettling silence of the house is worse.

“Are you going to act like that all night?” Mrs. Hooper asks her daughter when she comes back into the sitting room.

Laurie shrugs, pulling her jumper sleeves down to wrists. “Have you told Molly yet?”

Mrs. Hooper pulls away, snuggling back into the couch, and groans.

“I’m going to take that as a no.” She scrunches her mouth into a small frown. “But what did I really expect?”

Mrs. Hooper swings her head to the side at this and gives her younger daughter her best attempt at puppy dog eyes. It goes off with some faults.

“What?”

“I did call her,” Mrs. Hooper supplies, as if she’s solved half of the issue.

“And?”

The older lady sits up and smooth her blanket across her lap. A hand catches on a loose thread and she pulls at it absentmindedly.

“She’s seeing someone now.”

Laurie rolls her eyes. “I know Mum. And don’t go and change the subject.”

“What? When did you find out?” She seems to get quieter as her question is posed.

“December. Christmas. We chatted.”

“Who called who?”

Laurie is nervous to answer that. “She did. But it was just to share news originally.”

Mrs. Hooper tilts her head in confusion. “News?”

“Mm.”

“What?”

“She’s not just seeing someone, Mum. She got engaged. Last December.”

This is clearly news to the elder. She pulls at her jaw, teeth biting down on a couple fingernails. She continues to bite them, worry etched across her face until Laurie can’t stand it anymore.

“Mum!” She stands from the old settee and kicks a music themed pillow away from her feet —the bass notes on the staff worn away from years of use. “We’re calling her. Now.”

She’s too fast for her mother and reaches the phone before Mrs. Hooper can stand from the couch. The phone base makes a beep as Laurie picks it up from its spot in the kitchen and walks back, dialing as she goes.

“Hello?” Laurie hears on the line amidst some shuffling in the background.

“Molly, hi.” Laurie cringes, not sure of what to say next. How does one even start with news like this. “I —We wanted —Mum and I wanted to discuss something with you.”

“There’s silence on Molly’s side, followed by a shooing sound —most likely her cat— and then she’s back, prompting her sister to continue.

“She probably thinks this is about that boyfriend —sorry, fiancé of hers,” Mrs. Hooper warns.

Laurie bats her mom away, but she doesn’t have the willpower to say anything further.

“ _You still there?”_ Laurie hears through the receiver.

She splutters, before Mrs. Hooper takes the cordless form her daughter’s hands.

“Molly,

hun,” Mrs. Hooper begins, explaining her situation.

If her next words never came, her tone would still convey it all. Breast cancer. Stage 3. She doesn’t question the silence when Molly is left speechless.

* * *

 

 But Molly questions everything beyond that.

“Have you started chemo or are they suggesting a mastectomy?” Molly asks, gripping her mobile tight in her hand.  

“My doctor suggested the first, but, that’s actually what I wanted to talk about earlier, when I called.”

“Oh.” Molly leans back against her kitchen counter and toys with a small puddle of water by the sink. “Did you want my advice?”

Mrs. Hooper smiles with a faint laugh —not at all mocking, but out of sincere confoundment that she is once again, putting Molly into a position much like when her father was ill.

“There’s a cancer clinic. In London. One of the best in the country.”

“You want to stay here while you see the doctors there?”

“I want to stay with you —if you have enough room—” Her voice lightens. “And maybe plan this wedding of yours.”

Molly pales. “Wedding?”

Mrs. Hooper harrumphs over the line. “Please don’t tell me you’re putting it off forever. Especially now.”

Even in serious times, Mrs. Hooper knows just how to guilt her daughter into what she wants.

“I can come, stay with you, plan the wedding, and you know, attend these weekly appointments and such.”

“The chemo?” Molly corrects.

“Yeah, that.”  
Molly sighs loudly, holding her body up with one arm against the counter. “Laurie told you about Tah- William?” she questions, remembering her vague conversation over Christmas with her sister.

“Well, yes. Why didn’t you —oh nevermind. You can explain why you never mentioned this earlier. You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this, hun.”

“Uh, huh.” Molly rubs the back of her neck and springs away towards the living room. A certain passed out consulting detective is napping on the couch. She walks over and sits at the end, covering the ends of his feet with the sheet. His breathing is methodical and soothes her, almost to the point of forgetting her telephone conversation.

“So?” her mother asks brashly on the other end. “Can we stay? Or are you and William too busy for us?”

Molly clears her throat and glances down at Sherlock. “You do owe me,” she whispers to him, her only rationalization to what she says next. “Yes.”

* * *

 

The day’s events leave Molly tossing and turning all night. She emerges from her bedroom, hours later, expecting the solution to her problem to be long gone by now, but the curls of his dark hair still outline the edges of his pillow.

Her head is pounding from the restless sleep, but she goes to her fridge to start making breakfast anyway. She has just turned on the kettle, when she reads the oven clock, _3:30._

“Oh,” she mutters to herself, placing her yogurt down on the counter. Her fingers pick at the tab on her breakfast, while she considers her options: attempt another few hours of dreadful sleep or face the problem head on.

Her body screams sleep, but her mind falls to the latter. _It’s 3:30,_ she tries reasoning with herself.  But everytime she goes to turn back to her room, anxiety takes over and forces her wide awake.

There are other options than him of course. She could lie —create an elaborate and unconvincing story that keeps ‘William’ far away from London during her mother’s stay. She’s seen the TV movies before; she could hire an escort. Although the thought of hiring one scares her shitless and the cost, above all, is definitely a larger issue. She has no guy friends apart from work colleagues and Meena’s brother and they are honestly more like acquaintances.

But what would he say to such an absurd request?

“Molly?” he sits up and peers over the back of the couch at her.

Looks like she’s about to find out.

* * *

 

“Your fiancé?” he questions.

The words sound as foreign to her as they do for him. Despite actually having one just months before, it’d never really fit for her.  

“You need me to be your fiancé?” He rubs at his eyes, still waking.

Molly nods, doubt etched into her forehead in little creases. Maybe it wasn’t the best idea to spring the request on him immediately, but then again, was there ever a decent time?

“I don’t understand,” he replies, shifting the sheet down to his lap so he can prop himself up properly.

Molly’s eyes shift down from his face to where his collar bone juts out underneath the crew neck.

“Is this for a case?” He pauses. “Has my brother contacted you?”

Molly lets out a throaty laugh and touches his forearm for reassurance. “No,” she replies adamantly, though his guess would seem to yield a much shorter and simpler explanation. “It’s a long story.”

The phrase _I’ve got time,_ comes to mind, but at this earlier hour, neither one of them have any desire to stay awake for much longer.

“I lied to my Mum to keep her out of my hair and it backfired. She’s coming to London, to stay here for a bit and I need help.”

Sherlock’s upturned lip relaxes as her last words sift through his brain.

“You told her I was your fiancé?”

Molly’s face goes red and she curls her lips inward. “I told her I had a fiancé.”

“Then use John; he’s experienced with that sort of stuff.”

“John’s married!”

“So am I.”  
“Your work doesn’t count, Sherlock. And… And I told her his name was William.”

“You read my medical charts?” he asks accusingly.

Molly pulls back. “I did your autopsy. When you _died._ ”

“Mm,” he grunts —a nonverbal touché.

“Will you do it?” she asks after his eyes return to her. “It shouldn’t be for very long and all you have to do is not deny it.” She smiles with a noncommittal shrug.

Sherlock purses his lip and cards a hand through his hair, looking past her as if the answers are written on the living room walls.

“We’ll need to plan this out further. Clearly, you have no backstory in place.”

“No…” Molly replies. “I literally just asked if you’d do it.”

“I will. So we’ll talk about this in the morning.”

Sherlock looks down for the first time and picks up his phone near Molly’s leg.

“Sorry,” she apologizes, scooting sideways on her coffee table.

“John,” he mutters, typing away in thought.

“Sherlock.” Molly rests a hand on his sheet clad knee, before pulling back sharply. “Thank you for this.”

The consulting detective glances up from his mobile screen and observes his pathologist for a moment. She can feel his eyes on her, taking in every minute facial cue. She’s about to pull away and return to her room, when he reaches over and stops her, pulling at her wrist.

“It was my pleasure,” he repeats, awkwardly, the source of his words unknown, yet somehow familiar.

Still a good distance below her, Sherlock reaches up, his hand hovering over her hair, and pats her head twice. He looks like an alien attempting human comfort, but the gesture goes almost unnoticed by Molly, who is quite used to his odd behaviour by now.

“Get some rest,” she tells him, standing from her perch and shutting off the kitchen lights.

He hums in reply, watching her retreating form, before murmuring “goodnight.”

“I’m glad you’re committed to this,” she says before entering her room, “Because I really did not want to hire an escort.”

With a click, the door closes, leaving him to imagine the uncharted scenario playing over and over again in his mind .

* * *

 

She can feel a slight prick in her side the following morning, causing her to stir. The sun’s out for once and her clock, which she has forgot to set for daylight savings time, reads 10:34. Regardless of both, she tries to fall back to sleep, immersed in an uncomplicated dream in outer space —her only hinderance an expensive pet alien that won’t stop making a ruckus.

“Get up,” the alien pesters, poking at her side again with a stick.

Molly reaches across her body and grabs hold of the stick, yanking it away from the 3 foot little bugger. Instead of a piece of tree, she feels her mattress dip and wakes to find another, much taller, bugger above her.

“It’s nearly noon,” he complains, kneeling against the mattress, shifting it back and forth.

“Only nearly,” she yawns, shooing him away. “Give me ten minutes—”

“Five,” he interrupts.

“Ten minutes and I’ll come out.”

The mattress goes still for a moment, before he backs off and leaves the room, closing her door.

* * *

 

 Sitting on the couch in her flat eight minutes later, he can hear her turn on the shower.

“Ten minutes...” he grumbles to himself.

His phone, resting face up on his lap, lights up and Sherlock fumbles with it, trying to read a response back from his brother. Mycroft had of course been one of the first to be notified the night before, with John following shortly after.

_So you’re now engaged to Molly? What do you need from me? I very much doubt I’m the best person to ask for advice on this subject. -MH_

_It’s not a real engagement, brother of mine. It’s a set up. -SH_

_Oh, new case? -MH_

_Favour for Molly. -SH_ _  
_ _A favour? You’re going soft brother. -MH_

_It’s because of her mother. Don’t be so obtuse. -SH_

_Aw, a charity case then? -MH_

_A favour! -SH_

_No no. I get it. -MH_

_Then you understand why I’ve contacted you. -SH_

_To tell Mum it’s a set-up, so she doesn’t lose it when she walks into your wedding, mid-vows, without an invitation? -MH_

_I’m not actually getting married! -SH_ _  
_ _I can joke, Sherlock. -MH_

_No you can’t. I’m serious. I need you to aid our efforts. -SH_ _  
_ _I thought John would be your best man. -MH_

_There is no wedding Mycroft! -SH_

Sherlock pauses, hearing the shower turn off.

_If I say fake wedding papers, I need fake papers. If Mrs. Hooper needs pictures of our engagement, I need fabricated photos. -SH_

_No need to get worked up. I have it covered. -MH_

_Good. -SH_

“Mycroft?” Sherlock hears from behind him.

His elbows are resting on his untied dressing gown and his head is bowed, eyes glued to the phone screen.

* * *

 

 Molly doesn’t wait for an answer, but rounds the couch and sits down next to him. She cranes her head over and scans the screen.

“He’s going to help us then?” she asks as a drop of water from her hair lands on his lap.

“Oh, sorry.” She whips her hair around and winds it up into a bun on her head.

“It’s fine,” he replies, patting down his leg, more for show. “I believe Mycroft will. But in doing so, will also request many things from me in the future  —trips to the theatre with my parents included.”

Molly laughs quietly in the back of her throat before replying, “Well, it can’t be that bad.”

“I know.” Sherlock seems to be treating the situation seriously. “If I’m to help you with this, I’m not going in without the facts.”

“It’s not a case or anything. I don’t think there is too too much to be concerned about.”

Molly looks down, seeing his phone light up again, and takes the time to finish buttoning her jumper, pulling it over her jeans when it’s done up.

“Mycroft again?”

Sherlock shakes his head with a chuckle. “No, _John_.”

“Oh!” Molly hadn’t known he’d been notified yet.

Sherlock continues shaking his head, biting back a smile.

“What?” Molly asks.

“I let him know late last night what was happening.”

“So?”

“To John Watson. Sent 4:12 am. _I am engaged to Molly. See you at lunch tomorrow. Sherlock._ ”

* * *

 

“I thought you said your case was over yesterday?” Mary asks her husband, pulling up the covers on their bed.

John is pacing in front of the footboard, mumbling to himself. He stops in the middle for a moment and looks up at his wife. “Yes. Wait. What?”

“You finished your case yesterday, right?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“Oh... Oh!” Mary springs up, no longer desiring to sleep in any longer. “So? Is this for a new case?”

“I don’t know!” John throws his arms up. When they return to his sides, they’re like weights, pulling him down to the floor, where he sits with his legs stretching out in front of him.

“It’s not like him to start a new case —an undercover case— like that.”

“Without you?” Mary teases.

“I can’t see him risking Molly either.”

“Mmm,” Mary affirms.

She crawls to the end of the bed and rests her hands on John’s shoulders, smoothing away the creases in his shirt.

“He couldn’t actually be serious, could he?” she poses after a moment of extended silence.

John guffaws, before settling back and thinking about it some more.

“No… No. Well, I don’t think so anyway.”

Mary swings her legs off the side of the bed and stands to walk over to the bathroom.

“He can be very secretive sometimes.”

“He thinks he can, but in reality…” John trails off. “Besides him lying about you know what, since when has he pulled off anything elaborate?”  
“You’d think faking your death would suffice for credentials,” Mary comments, swiping her toothbrush from its holder. She waits until it’s centimeters from her mouth before adding, “They can be quite chummy.”

“Who, Sherlock? Chummy? With Molly?”

Mary doesn’t reply, merely shrugs with one shoulder, before spitting in the sink.

“No… No. Maybe.” John tries to shake the thought from his mind, but it’s already embedded. “What signs has he shown?”

Mary grins. “Me?” She points at herself with the wet toothbrush. “He’s your best friend.”

“Ah, yes. But you’re the observant one, according to him.”

Mary tucks her arm in at the elbow, while her toothbrush dangles, dripping water into the sink.  

“Hmm. Well, he does stop by her flat often. Or comes from that direction a lot anyway, after cases.”

“And?”

“Sometimes they share joke which I find not in the least bit humorous, but that’s-”

“—Molly.”

“—Sherlock,” they answer simultaneously.

“You could ask him. But be discrete.”

“And how am I supposed to discreetly ask if he’s taking the piss? He’s going to know either way, if I believe him or not.”

“Here,” Mary asks for his mobile, holding her hand out, standing in front of him.

John leans back and digs it out of his trouser pocket, pausing when it reaches her fingers.

“Don’t say anything I wouldn’t say myself.”

“I think that’s sort of the point of me sending the message though, eh? Besides, I’ll make it short, include all that punctuation you like to use.”

“Oh, he’ll still know, Mary. He’ll know.”

* * *

 

Outside John’s favourite coffee shop that afternoon, Sherlock waits impatiently with their two cups to go. John emerges shortly after, wiping his hands against his trousers. Sherlock notes the urgency in his friend’s routine and smiles.

“So how’d you know it wasn’t real?” Sherlock asks him, heading back for Baker St.

“You and marriage?” John snorts.

Sherlock hums in agreement, raising the cup to his lips as he thinks.

“So it is entirely implausible?”  
“Improbable, more so. But you had Mary and I questioning it for a few minutes this morning.”

Sherlock’s teeth tap against the plastic opening, pleased with his earlier deductive skills.

“I knew it was her that replied.”  
“I told her you would,” John says back, shaking his head. “What gave it away?”

“Please, _We need to talk_ was way too inconspicuous for you. If you did indeed believe I was serious, you’d have been over in a heartbeat to make sure I hadn’t forced the girl into it for my own selfish reasons and if you hadn’t… You’d still have overreacted.”

“So tell me again, what is this reason?”

Sherlock pauses, rubbing his hands against the shell of the cup, despite the warm temperature. He hadn’t really given his friend a straight answer before.

“It’s a favour. I owe her. I’m repaying it.”

“Mhm... “ John drawls out, waiting for more. “And you’re actually sticking to that promise because?”

“Something to do with her mother. It sounded serious. I didn’t pry.”

“That’s a first,” John snickers, taking a large sip to hide behind his drink. When he looks up, Sherlock’s piercing glare has subsided and is way too focused on the shop windows beside them. “Sherlock?”

His friend has stopped walking, far too intrigued by a jewelry store off the main road. Sherlock pulls at John’s shirt, like a small child, until he turns to follow Sherlock in.

A bell jingles as they enter the store, swinging above them like they’re entering a small town post office. Sherlock follows it with his eyes until a woman pops up from behind the counter in the centre of the room with a smile plastered on her face.

“Afternoon,” she greets in a sing-song voice, reminding Sherlock of his daft school teachers from primary school.

Sherlock nods in recognition of her presence and begins scanning all the lit cases carefully. He finds the glass barrier around the jewelry a bother and almost immediately jabs his finger down on top of one of the cases.

“I’ll need to see these ones,” he tells the shop lady, without looking up.

“Of course,” she replies, hiding clear disdain behind a professional façade.

* * *

 

 As the woman takes out the top shelf for Sherlock to view, John stands behind his friend observing the scene with a mixture of both anxiety and curiosity. He can hear the disapproving snorts the man makes upon viewing every unsatisfactory piece. With each new shelf, the glass covered plates adorning each velvet display reveal more zeros tacked onto the end of the price.  

Finally, after ten minutes of scanning, Sherlock’s head dips lower, hovering over a set of rings, and he picks one of them up, marveling it between his fingers. It’s small in his hands. The attendant behind the cases twinges ever so slightly when it looks as if Sherlock may drop it, but the ring only falls into his palm, disappearing behind the slope of his wrist.

“This will do,” he announces, placing emphasis on every syllable alas he change his mind part of the way through.

“Fine choice,” the woman says, visibly relieved.

She begins to ring up his purchase, running through her obligatory questions on insurance, billing, and sizing. Sherlock takes no chances, nodding along to everything impatiently.

“Sized already?” John pipes up.

Sherlock turns briefly, almost unaware that his friend has been standing behind him for the last while, and shakes his head.

“She’s a 6,” he says after pulling out a credit card and handing it over. “You do remember her engagement to Tom,” he continues, straining to pronounce her ex-fiancé’s name.

“Well…” John shifts uncomfortably, still not understanding how Sherlock could have known.

“Half carat round diamond, white gold engagement ring? Easily under two thousand pounds.”

“Her old ring was?” John tries to think back to a case when engagement ring knowledge was needed, but comes up empty.

“Yes. That one. Size 6,” Sherlock cuts in sharply.

“And yours?” John motions to the box the lady is packing up.

Sherlock takes the bag and looks over the receipt. “Three carat Princess cut diamond, three stone engagement ring, 18kt white gold,” he reads nonchalantly. He looks up at John with a hint of a smile playing at his lips. “Size 6. Not two thousand pounds.”

John hovers over the bag, trying to read the paper as Sherlock begins to walk out.

‘Pricey,” John notes in a teasing manner.

“Impressive,” Sherlock corrects him, pleased with himself.

* * *

 

 The situation feels familiar for Sherlock when he arrives outside of Molly’s flat the following morning with some of his things. The small grocery bag he is carrying does not hold food or anything from the lab though. Inside is a collection of rather random items, most of which the consulting detective hadn’t owned until approximately twenty minutes before at a nearby Co-Op.

Molly answers the door, still dressed in an oversized shirt and trackies. Her eyes divert from Sherlock, dressed to the nines at ten o’clock in the morning on a Saturday, to the grocery bag in his hands.

“Making lunch?” she asks, stepping to the side to let him in.

“No.” He looks confused as if he’s missed something.

“I was just—” Molly pauses, pointing at the bag. “It was a joke.”

“Oh, right. Well, there isn’t any food in here so…”

“What is that for anyway?”

Sherlock smiles at this and props it up on top of her kitchen counter, removing the items on top first.

“I met with John yesterday,” he begins, not addressing the new men’s razor and deodorant sitting next to Molly’s dishes from breakfast.

“And you told him?” Molly chews on the inside of her lip.

“That this is a ruse? Of course.”

He takes out a few more bathroom essentials and small basket, noticeably used already, with dust stuck in the divots of the plastic.

“Just to keep stuff organized,” he comments, when he sees her looking at the last item. “Anyway,” he goes on, “I—”

Molly halts him there, snatching the bag he’s continued to unload, from his hands. She doesn’t know quite what to say. She’s used to shutting him down from doing any sort of experiment at her flat and especially in her kitchen, but none of the bag’s contents really scream _science_. Instead, she just holds it in mid-air, silently, waiting for an explanation.

Sherlock sense her uneasiness and tries reaching for her bag. When he isn’t successful, he ignores her behaviour and continues. “I was just going to say that when I met with John, he found it pressing to give me… advice on this.” Sherlock tries reaching for it once more, but to no avail. “John thinks we should have a name for this charade. Like a case name.”

“This isn’t one your undercover cases though, Sherlock.” She swings the brown bag behind her back. “ This is you, helping me out, because of a giant misunderstood lie.”

“That you cannot face,” he adds in.

“Yes.” She lets out a long sigh under her breath. “That.”

They stand in uneasy silence, each taking their turn to look away from the other. Finally Molly cracks.

“So what is this bag for again?” She holds up the evidence in front of her, making sure to keep her distance lest he snatch for it again.

“I was getting to that.” He grits his teeth, wondering for the first time if he’s capable of just walking away now.

“This better not be for an experiment,” she accuses him.

“It’s not,” he tries to convince her.

“Then what are all of these products for? Did you raid the toiletries section?”

Sherlock lets out an exasperated groan.

“And what else is in here?”

Sherlock tries again to take the bag back, for both of their sake, when Molly shoves her hand in and feels around at the bottom. Both adults visibly blanch when her hand comes back out, holding a grey pair of pants by the elastic. Molly drops them quickly back in, making their disappearance happen just as sudden.

“They’re overnight… items,” Sherlock clarifies, delicately lifting the bag from Molly’s hands this time. “John said it would make the charade look for convincing.”

* * *

 

 “I need my two dress shirts—the ones with the frayed sleeves in your closet here and please do not leave this out,” Sherlock says, walking past Molly as he picks some chocolate wrappers off her nightstand.

“The frayed ones?” Molly looks down at her bed where the rest of the bag’s contents —sans pants— lay scattered out. “Why frayed?”

“I don’t wear those anymore, but I’m sure the common person would not notice.”

Molly isn’t sure if that’s a jab at her or her family.

“Okay,” she replies, finding two with faded sleeves and hanging them beside her jumpers.

It looks slightly disconcerting. Despite their engagement, the most Tom ever left behind at her flat was a toothbrush. He always brought a bag with him and left with it in the morning —if they ever came back to her flat, which was rare. Sherlock’s shirts look out of place next to her, frayed sleeves or otherwise.

“Do you need these wipes?” Sherlock sticks his head out from her bathroom, catching Molly lost in thought.

“What wipes?” She stands and paces over to him. “Yes, I do. I need all of this!”

She begins picking products off of her shower ledge and putting them back in her mirror cabinet. “And stop moving my things.” She pushes him out into the hall. “You’re not actually moving in here Sherlock. You aren’t actually using these on a regular basis either.” She cringes at the word _regular_ as if staying overnight even one day a week is normal.

“I know,” he retorts, letting her comment go right over his head. “But it has to look real. Anyone who knows me, knows I wouldn’t put up with this!”

“Well good thing they don’t, Sherlock. And frankly, right now, I’m having trouble putting up with you.”

Both of their words sting a bit more than they’d intended, but it’s out there, pervading throughout the flat until it’s almost suffocating.

“I may not know your motives for agreeing to help me, Sherlock. But let’s get one thing damn straight. This isn’t a case. This isn’t a social experiment. And you won’t control this.”

“I know,” he tries to cut in, his voice much quieter. “I get that parents can be frustrating sometimes.”

Images of his mother come to mind —the disapproving shake of her head when Mycroft and himself visit for Christmas each year, neither with a girlfriend or significant other in tow. _The only reason I agreed to getting this old was for the grandchildren,_ he remembers Mummy complaining to his father four Christmas’s ago.

“You don’t get it, yet do you? I thought the Sherlock Holmes and all of his deductive capabilities would have picked up on this by now!”

Molly shifts a few things around her dresser, looking for her mother’s papers. She finds a pair of his socks sticking out from a drawer and yanks them out. Sherlock jerks back.

“I get that you don’t want to disappoint. I get that she can be disapproving of your choices.”

Molly guffaws, switching directions on him and going over to a stack of paper on her chair. In the chaos of the last hour, her mother’s medical diagnosis must have gotten jammed together with the mail.  

“It’s not just the disappointment,’ she says, pulling at the elastic ties on her trackies as she hands him the paper clipped file. “She sounded so happy when I didn’t deny this stupid lie.” Molly breaks away, dropping the socks he’d placed in her drawer and sits down on her bed.

Sherlock can tell she’s fighting tears —trying to keep her hands away from her face by balling them at her sides. He doesn’t know his place in situations like this and his lack of a decent response shows. He avoids her eyes, swelled and blinking furiously, and decides to pick up his discarded clothes from the floor. After placing them on her dresser, he walks out into the living room with the file and waits.

* * *

 

 Molly leaves Sherlock alone for thirty minutes, staying in her room with the door closed. She feels foolish, like a child locking herself away from a problem. She knows this isn’t fair to him. She’s quite frankly surprised he’s agreed to this thus far, but the whole thing isn’t fair to her either. Just when she thinks the whole plan is idiotic and ridiculous to carry forward with, she thinks of her Mum and how selfish she’s being.  

She’d seen her mother’s file, sent over by Laurie the day after they’d spoken. Her mother’s condition is worse than either one of them made it out to be. Yet, her mother is so chipper, so happy to see her daughters doing well. If Molly can’t bear to fake a relationship for a few weeks, just to give her mother peace in her last year, what does that mean of herself?

Sitting alone in her room with everything laid in front of her is one thing, but seeing that man, pretending to be with him —it’s a sort of torture that the worst psychopaths out there couldn’t think up.

It’s nearly noon when Molly emerges to an empty living room. Sherlock is gone, but his bag of belongings remain tucked away throughout her flat. Their charade may still be on, but their dynamic is off kilter, teetering to fall unless restored.

* * *

 

 Molly thought she could erase the day with a glass of wine and the box set of Downton Abbey Meena lent her, but a call just before dinner proves her wrong. The Bath area code pops up on her mobile and she answers reluctantly.

“Hello?”

“Hey Molls, it’s Laurie,” her sister responds.

“I figured,” she replies, failing to hide the bad morning behind her.

“I’m just calling from Scott’s place to let you know Mum and I’s travel plans for tomorrow, if that’s alright with you?”

Molly grimaces, wanting more than anything to return to the Crawley’s drama over her own. “It’s fine, Laur, I just had a rough day.”

Her sister doesn’t inquire any further, which Molly is glad for, and reads off her and Mum’s train information and arrival time for the following morning.

“Scott and Sam are going to stay back for now,” Laurie mentions, bringing up her partner and son. “But they can always drive up to meet us when the big day arrives.”  
“Big day?” Molly says to herself, finding it hard to believe that any day for their mother will be, as her sister put it, _big._

“The wedding!” Laurie giggles in the background. “Arrangements already got you stressed?”

Molly hums, not having the energy to lie with actual words for now.

“So I was thinking we have a nice dinner before Mum starts chemo on Monday,” Laurie leads in, clear anticipation in her voice. “How does that sound for William? Can he make it?”

“You will meet him,” Molly replies, less than convinced herself, “but I don’t know if he’s free tomorrow night.”

“A Sunday night? What in god’s name does he do that he can’t take the night off to meet his future mother-in-law?”

Molly shrugs to herself, finding humour in the image of Sherlock struggling through a full meal with her family, not breaking character.

“Actually, I think he probably could. I’ll talk him into it if not. He owes me.”

Laurie doesn’t reply immediately, but Molly can hear her sister’s quiet giggles over the line. It makes Molly uncomfortable, picturing the possibilities briefly, all the while knowing she must speak with Sherlock again before the end of the night.

“Good. We’re looking forward to meeting him. Mum says we needs better genes than Scott’s to pass down the Hooper name.”

_Kids?_ Molly has trouble with the engagement topic, nevermind children.

“He is too —looking forward to meeting you too!” Molly holds the phone away from her face to compose herself. “I’ll see you both tomorrow at 9:45. Let me know if Mum needs anything when she gets here.”

“Okay, see you soon.”

“Goodnight, Laur.”

“Night.”

* * *

 

 After twenty minutes with the show back on, Molly is having a rather difficult time concentrating. Everywhere she looks she sees a reminder of him: his old pair of slippers sitting by the front door, and a set of expired chemicals he insisted leaving with the cleaning supplies. _They won’t check the expiration dates,_ she remembered him telling her that morning.

She’d been in the same rutty clothes all day and thinks maybe a shower could create some normalcy right now —after she removes his shampoo and two bottles of conditioner, though.

As the water heats up, Molly goes back to her room and begins to undress. Her oversized shirt flops over her head like a blanket, sliding down her arms with ease. She pulls off her trackies and tosses them at her hamper and misses. They land on top of the brown bag from earlier, making it crunch upon impact. She picks both items up, one destined for the laundry and the other for the recycling, when she notices another item in the bag. It’s light and small, but clunks around at the bottom.

“What else did he leave here?” she asks aloud to her empty flat.

It’s a small white box with a shiny clasp on the outside and gold embossed lettering on the bottom. When the box’s content dawns on her, she drops it to her bed as if it were on a dead bug, picked out of her sister’s hands as a kid. She peers over at it, standing a good distance away in just her knickers like a real ninny.

_Just check,_ she encourages herself. _There’s really no need to be this bothered. So he got a ring?_

“Not helping,” she mutters under her breath.

As if to not wake it, she pads lightly across the floor to her bed and leans down holding it gently  in her hands. With almost no force at all, it opens with a click to reveal this so called dreaded ring. Staring down at it, the ring looks pretty harmless. Molly marvels at the three stoned center, so small and dainty, yet so… impressive.

One minute, it’s safe in the white box, tucked away between the folds of the fabric, and the next it’s sliding down her ring finger, right over the ridge of her second knuckle.

Sitting on her finger, it’s much bigger than Tom’s engagement ring —except this isn’t an engagement ring, it’s pretend. The ring gives her a feeling of false hope —a fake life she isn’t sure she is ready to face right now. Imagining things is all fine and dandy, but living them. She knows not for the first time since she was young that acting was never her forte. _Too immersed in the role,_ her dad had told her after her school’s last performance of Hamlet. _It’s just a story._

Molly sighs, touching the stones, and reminiscing in the feeling it once gave her to be engaged, declared taken —a tiny trophy that said I did it, I was special enough for one person.

_Special._

She closes the box and places it in her side drawer above a number of books she’s planned to read for years and leans back against the headboard.

“It fits too,” she notes in a whisper.

* * *

 

 She doesn’t know how, thirty minutes later, she’s brought herself to Sherlock’s door.  One second she was lying on her bed, admiring the engagement ring and the next she’s fully dressed, hair combed, and standing in front of 221b with a brown paper bag and takeaway.

To her relief Mrs. Hudson answers the door, “Oh, good evening Molly.” She notices the bag clutched in her hand and frowns. “He hasn’t got you working a case on a Saturday night, has he?”

“No, no,” Molly assures, stepping inside. “Just some things.”

Mrs. Hudson looks down once more as if to see what’s inside, when Molly crinkles the top over on itself and tucks it down by her side.

“Is he up there?”

“Oh, yes. Been very quiet. Very suspicious.”

Molly smiles, shaking her head all knowing. “I’m sure he’s fine.”

“No. No. Don’t let the peacefulness deceive you, dear.”

“Night, Mrs. Hudson,” she replies, climbing the stairs.

The landlady waves at Molly before shooting another piercing glare past her to Sherlock’s flat. “I’m not cleaning anything up for you this time,” she mutters quietly to herself.

* * *

 

 Sherlock barely hears Molly enter the room, sitting on the corner of the couch, hunched over his laptop. Molly closes the door behind her and walks over to him, dropping the brown bag to the floor and sitting down on the next cushion with the takeaway box.

“Brought dinner.”

Sherlock merely grunts.

“I’ll get a plate then.”

She’s pulled one down from a cabinet when she sees him checking out the bag and nudging it lightly with his foot. When he notices her return, he goes back to the computer.

“What’s the new case about?”

It takes Sherlock a moment to process her question. “Case?’

“That’s what you’re working on, correct?”

He hums in agreement.

“So?”

“No one’s dead… yet. So not really your thing… yet.”

“I see,” she replies, taking his hostility as a sign to open up the takeaway for herself.

She eats in silence, while he types away, expressing disappointment and success with basic human gestures and noises. She knows he’s hit a particular block in the case when he takes the other set of chopsticks and stabs a piece of her chicken.

“Right through the heart,” she jokes, before wishing she could swallow the words, right back in from where they’d come from.

He swallows slowly, side-eyeing her as he chews.

“So, what’s this case about anyway? No dead bodies and all?”

Sherlock taps the coffee tables twice, before setting the chopsticks down beside hers and scooting back to show her his laptop.

“Student prostitution,” he replies bluntly.

Molly almost chokes on her food and gets up to search for something to drink. There’s usually nothing she likes here besides water. Even his tea is questionable without Mrs. Hudson’s assistance. But today he has leftover wine from Mary and John’s visit and she’d be crazy to not take advantage. She pulls down one wine glass from the counter, not bothering to ask him, and takes a sip before she’s back at the couch.

“So… Student prostitution?”

* * *

 

 

He can’t help the smile playing at his lips —the way she has to pause before uttering something so… not her.

“The dean called it a prostitution ring, but he gets carried away.”

“I’m really hoping these are Uni students?” she asks, taking a long sip.

Sherlock nods. “I’ve traced its origin to a group of students who solicited sex and sexual acts for textbooks and were reselling them for profit out of a hall.”

“And?” She lowers the glass. “What’s happened.”

“The way all things tend to lean towards when there’s a commodity: rivals —competing groups. Very messy.”

Molly nods, eyes wide, and very sure nothing like this had gone down at her school.

“The dean at Middlesex College has requested my help to determine the major players.”

Molly sputters. “Middlesex college?”

“Mm,” he confirms.

“Rightly place I suppose.”

“Yes. Indeed.”

Molly sets her wine down and returns to her food, shoveling rice into her mouth. Sherlock looks back to the screen in front of him.

“I’ve been profiling suspected students, thus far. None have really fit the profile of a pimp however.”

“That’s unfortunate —for the case.”

Sherlock curls his top lip over the bottom one before slamming his laptop shut and standing to get a glass for himself.

“I see you found the ring,” he says upon his return.

He fills his own glass and tops up Molly’s, taking alcohol over an uncomfortable conversation any day.

Molly smiles, a faint blush tempting her cheeks. “I found it in that bag. Assumed it was for me —for our charade.”

“Yes, of course.”

They sit in silence, sipping slowly.

“Where’d you get the ring? It’s awfully nice.”

“Borrowed it,” he lies, averting his eyes with a terse expression.

“Mycroft?”

Sherlock can’t help but release a low chortle.

“Why would my brother own such a classic ring that like?”

Molly forces a grin as well and looks down at it, twisting the band around her finger.

“Who else is a size 6?” she questions.

“Client.”

He doesn’t sound entirely sure of himself and takes the opportunity to grab himself a plate as well.

I thought you didn’t eat on cases?” she mocks, the residual frustration from earlier still bubbling below the surface.

“I don’t consider this a case. More like a distraction.”

Molly purses her lips together, hugging the glass to her chest. “Isn’t everything?” she asks to no one in particular.

Their conversation dwindles down again as they attempt to avoid the topic of their earlier quarrel.

“So why has that bag returned?” he questions, doubt crossing his face.

He can’t imagine she would have found and collected everything he’d placed in her flat, but then again, she had plenty of time to do so.

“Some things,” she replies, pulling it towards her with her toes so she doesn’t have to stand.

She’s made sure not include anything risky, unlike his collection, and chose only a jumper as the clothing she’d have to part with for the following weeks.

“Here, take a look.” She hands him the bag and sinks into the couch cushions, focusing her eyes on the swirling reds inside her glass and not on the man about to make four billion deductions from a collection of old toiletry products.

“I’m guessing you don’t use these often?”

Molly nods and mentally tallies down a one.

“A lot of makeup in here.”

“So?” Her cheeks are going fuzzy and she feels her spunky, sassy Molly kicking in.

“You don’t wear a lot. At least not these colours.”

“It’s just for show right. Just lay a couple on your bathroom counter.”

Sherlock laughs, deep from his chest. “No. My bathroom would never have products just lying around.” He motions with his arms, animated.

“You’re an almost married man. Of course you would allow it. You’d let me and you’d deal with it.”

“Well, I actually am not, so no.”

Molly goes to press the subject on, when Sherlock draws a book from the bag. He flips through its pages, eyes darting across the black print. He holds up the offending paperback and waits for Molly’s reaction.

It doesn’t turn out as he expects.

“What? I read sometimes.”

“Is this for work?”

Molly shakes her head no.

He flips through to a chapter in the middle of the book and reads, “Just a Head: Decapitation, reanimation, and the human head transplant.”

“So?”

Sherlock can’t decide what’s more amusing: a pathologist reading a book on cadavers for fun or the fact that she decided a book on cadavers was the best choice to leave out at his flat.

“I thought it would make it obvious whose book that was.”

“You do realize who you’re fake engaged to right? Why didn’t you bring over one of your romance novels. There’d be no mistaking one those as mine.”

Molly goes red, wondering just how much snooping he’d done at her flat.

“I’m vetoing this choice of a book and asking you to at least return with a regency drama.”

Molly nods, eye alight. She’d never in the time she’s known him, assume they’d ever reach this topic of conversation.

They go through the rest of her bag that night. It feels like a backwards scavenger hunt, finding the best place to put things. They go through the rest of the wine too; Molly with two and a half glasses and Sherlock having barely finished one.

“I’m sorry about this morning,” she apologizes as she lies out across his couch. “It’s smart.”

“What is?” he asks absentmindedly while he picks at the cream coloured threads of the carpet.

“Treating this charade as an undercover case. I’m not really good with acting, but I am good with work. Think of this as your part time job for the next few weeks.”

“Part time?” he asks, skeptically.

“It’s not like you’re on house arrest,” Molly assures him. A thought then comes to her mind though. “But you need to be at dinner tomorrow night. They want to meet the mysterious William.”

“Ah, yes. I don’t remember the last time someone addressed me as William.”

“You can still call me Molly.” She sticks her tongue out between her teeth and winks, failing at keeping her flirtatious remarks at bay.

So maybe she’d helped Sherlock finish his glass as well.

“How did we meet?” he asks moments later, spread out on the floor in front of the couch. His hands are tucked underneath his head  while his house coat spans the area around him. “What’s our backstory?”  
“We already have one, don’t we? That’s the beauty in choosing you as a fake fianće,” she muses. “Oh what a TV movie this has become.”

“Yes. We do. Not very flattering.”

“Not for you anyway. You looked like a right buffoon that day, assuming I was some lab tech. I am the reason why you get such great access to Barts. The British government can only do so much.”

“So how did we start dating then?”

“I don’t know. I’ll —I’ll make something up.”

“Molly.” He shakes her leg, trying to keep her awake.

Her eyes are closing already as she starts to doze off to sleep.

“Molly,” he tries again.

“I don’t know,” she mumbles, “I asked you out for coffee and you said yes.”

“And?”

“And I became your favourite person so you had to marry me.”

“Molly!”

“No,” she whines. “ I’m tired. Leave me be, William.”

Sherlock stops at that and stands to his feet.

“Come along then, Molly,” he tells her, lifting the woman and carrying her into his room. “You can take the bed.”

* * *

 

Molly wakes the following morning with a familiar headache. There’s no nausea, but the thought of the day ahead of her just about has her there. She feels out to her sides for her phone, but comes up empty —just miles of sleek bed sheets between her fingers.

_What?_

She sits up, eyes fall on a periodic table poster, and she rubs at her face.

_I didn’t even go home last night,_ she chides herself.

Sherlock is still on the couch with his laptop when she comes out. Though his eyes scan back and forth reading something, he pulls his attention away from it for a moment a chuckles.

“What?” she snaps.

Her hair is mussed and frizzy at the back of her head. She tries combing it out with her fingers, but snags on a tough tangle.

“You do have some of your things here,” he reminds her. “Though I don’t remember if there was a hairbrush included.”

“I’m borrowing yours,” she mutters in a monotone voice.

Sherlock screws up his face, not pleased, but doesn’t fight her and gets back to his reading.

“Where’s my phone?” she asks from the bathroom.

Sherlock can hear the opening and closing of cabinets as she searches for his comb and gets up to help.

“You left it on the coffee table,” he answers.

“No, I fell asleep by it. You moved me.”

He pulls a small brush out from under the sink and hands it over with a smile, his gesture for a truce. She begrudgingly accepts both.   
“I needed my work space.”

“How’d that go? Did you sleep at all?”

“Yes.” He looks offended, arms crossed in front of him.

Her eyes rise to look at his head of curls, also a bit messed up from sleep. But they’re unruly to begin with and it somehow, unbeknownst as to how, make Sherlock even sexier to Molly. She looks away a tad bit ashamed for taking advantage of his hospitality ,only to ogle him in the morning.

“Your phone actually woke me up,” he comments, making his way to the kitchen.

“Okay.” Molly turns back to the mirror. “Wait! What?”  
She’s back in the main foyer in seconds, searching for the mobile.

“You’re work alarm went off.”

She finds her phone and lights up the lock screen revealing the time.

“That wasn't for work. I need to pick my family up from the train station. I’m late. So late.”

Molly rushes around the flat looking for anything she didn’t actually want to leave behind.

“Sunday… Sunday. God, what line is the least busy on Sundays?” she drills herself.

Sherlock watches her scramble out of his periphery, while slowing pulling on his own shoes and a light coat.

“You have everything,” he tells her, shoving her own shoes into her hands. “Your keys are in your purse and your mobile is in your hand. If we don’t leave now we’re going to be very late.”  
“But—”

He continues to usher out the door and down the stairs. When they get to the pavement, Sherlock guides Molly with a hand on her shoulder to a cab.

“But—” she protests again.

“It’s on me,” he rattles off.

“You’re coming?”

“Suppose so,” he concedes and slides in the car next to her.

* * *

 

 Molly hadn’t been planning on bringing Sherlock with her, and it quickly shows. The two fumble out, Sherlock paying the cabbie with a crumpled up set of bills, while Molly checks her phone once more for her family’s platform.

They walk side by side, hurried, escaping the morning drizzle, until they pass under the Paddington entrance and into the brightly lit station. It’s crowded for a Sunday. Sherlock keeps Molly close with two fingers curled around the end of her left sleeve. They pass lineups for food and tickets, before making their way over to platform two.

Waiting near the periphery, Sherlock scans the rush of people, seeing over the heads of the commuters. Molly, on the other hand, looks nowhere, but down. She can’t help but worry that something has gone wrong in the time it took Laurie to pick up her mother, travel to the station in Bath and board the train. It’s not like her sister isn’t responsible —she has a steady job and a kid, but she’s never been conventional. Neither one has. _They could have missed the train entirely to stop for ice cream,_ Molly fusses.

Sherlock senses her uneasiness and grasps her hand in his.

“Practice for when they arrive,” he explains.

Molly knows it’s a lie, but doesn’t complain. She squeezes his hand with her own, feeling the damp, warm skin beneath her palm.

Right on schedule, the 9:45 pulls inside, shunting to a stop. Sherlock pulls Molly in front of him, out of the path of the people getting off and leans down towards Molly’s ear.

“Who am I looking for?” he asks, hands resting on her shoulders.

“My sis and Mum. Laurie is taller than me, same colour hair, usually wears plaid. Mum is shorter with dark brown hair —though I think she dyes it now.”  
“Molly?”

“Mm?” She leans into his back.

“Do they know who I am?”

Molly peers up at him. “Know you how?”

“Know what I look like,” he murmurs.

“Oh. No. Don’t think so, why?”

“I think they’ve spotted us —mainly me in particular.”  
Molly turns back to the crowd and pushes herself away from Sherlock, trying to spot them. They’re walking slowly behind everyone else, the final passengers bringing up the caboose. Laurie is holding both suitcases while Mrs. Hooper carries her large purse in front of her with both hands.

“Molls!” Laurie calls out, moving ahead of her mom, despite the bags hitting her legs with every step.

She reaches her sister and places them down at her feet to offer a hug. There’s a gentle squeeze, before Laurie looks up at Sherlock from over Molly’s shoulder and observes the man with a close eye.

“You must be William,” she guesses, holding out her manicured hand.

There’s a paint stain just below her wrist and she smells of talcum powder and shortbread cookies.

Molly nudges Sherlock to say hello and he obliges with a forced smile.

“You look mighty familiar, William, “ shes says.

Sherlock is lost in space before he realizes she’s addressed him again.

“Hmm. Oh, yes. I have one of those faces I guess,” he supplies.

Laurie has no time to put her two cents’ worth in, for Mrs. Hooper is already stepping between them to introduce herself.  

“Nice to meet you, William.” She gives Sherlock a once over, smiling devilishly at Molly. “Very tall. Taller than Scott, huh Laurie?”

Her sister isn’t amused, but is stuck standing there, nodding along.

“We should get back to my place,” Molly offers, not awake enough yet to handle family drama with Sherlock there.

“Yes. And I need to finish up some work before the, uh, dinner tonight,” Sherlock adds, watching Molly in case he’d gotten a detail wrong.

Mrs. Hooper is beaming, and pats his shoulder with her hand. “Good man.”

Sherlock bites down on his teeth, keeping a neutral expression on his face. He knows mothers; the cues they look out for and the first signs of trouble —everything is a test.

“Come on Laur, the bags.” Mrs. Hooper starts walking for the entrance. “We’re taking a cab, right?” she turns to Molly.

“Yes Mum,” Molly takes one of the suitcases from Laurie’s hand and gives it to Sherlock with an all knowing look upon her face.

They walk back onto the street, the rain having fizzed out already leaving only darkened pavement and a stream of water near the curbs. Sherlock hails a cab and takes both of the suitcases to the boot.

“Where were you five years ago, William?” Mrs. Hooper asks as Laurie helps her into the front seat.

Sherlock and Molly exchange an uncomfortable look and get in the back. It’s a tight squeeze with all three of them in the back. Molly gets the middle seat, sitting on the hump with the seat that only goes across the lap. It makes for an eventful, swaying back and forth with every turn.

Laurie sends her a concerned look at the strain on Molly’s face from keeping upright. If she only knew.

“Can we take these corners slower?” Laurie asks the cabbie.

Mrs. Hooper scoffs, complaining they’re going too slow, despite the apparent traffic.

“I’m fine back here, really,” Molly tries, not completely convincing as her last word is higher pitched from turning onto the A5.

“Sorry,” the cabbie says sarcastically.

Molly scowls, thinking he must have done that one on purpose. She gets ready to brace herself as the car swings around a curve, when she feels Sherlock pull her into his side with an arm wrapped around her hip.

She wants to say something to him, a _thank you_ or _you don’t have to,_ but he hushes her, resting his chin just above her head. She’s so close, he can smell her hair —no longer like her usual lavender shampoo, but a weird combination of foods and aromas from his own flat. It makes his chest clench as an odd warming sensation fills him.

“This is it,” the cabbie tells them as they pull up to Molly’s flat.

Laurie gets out first to help her mom, leaving Molly still tucked into Sherlock’s side.

“I—”

“I’ll see you at dinner,” he finishes for her, though they both know her words were never coming out.

* * *

 

 Her mother’s condition really begins to show that night as they prepare for dinner. Her mother is tired before seven and doesn’t move around very much either. Molly’s taken notice of all the meds Laurie has provided for her as well. Despite not seeing eye to eye with Laurie on everything, Molly’s thankful her sister is there to take care of their mother. She can’t imagine leaving London, leaving her jobs, leaving her friends.

“So when is William getting here?” Laurie asks, helping Molly with the chicken’s sauce.

Molly blushes for no particular reason. Maybe it’s just the mention of his name on a constant basis now. “He texted me 7:25.”

“Very specific, isn’t it?”

“He’s never wrong,” she adds proudly.

Laurie coerces their mother to the table while Molly finishes setting the table for four spots. She doesn’t remember the last time she ate dinner here and even worse, the last time she had more than one setting out.

Like clockwork, Sherlock arrives just shy of 7:25, dressed in a suit this time, unlike his trousers and thin shirt from the afternoon. Molly smiles upon seeing him, a reinforcement on her team for the charade. They feel two sets of eyes on them as they hover by the door.

Molly’s only warning of what comes next is a brief raise of the eyebrow from Sherlock and a hand on her neck. He swoops in quickly and places a chaste kips on her lips. Molly does everything in her power to act as if Sherlock greeting her with a kiss is normal, but she’s thinking too much and over does, sliding her hands through his hair and taking a step closer, grazing his groin with her hips.

When he pulls back, he looks absolutely and completely shell-shocked. It’s Molly’s turn to raise her eyebrows in silent communication, telling him to act normal. But inside she feels like a complete tosser, pulling that crap in front of her family and for her and Sherlock’s first fake relationship kiss.

“Alright you two,” Mrs. Hooper calls to them, “You just saw each other this afternoon. You’re worse than your father was, Molly.”

“Yeah,” Molly rattles off not paying much attention to her mother. All she’s focused on now is to remove her gaze from Sherlock. _Just pull yourself away!_ “Coming,” she manages seconds later.

Like a puppy, Sherlock follows her with the salad he brought hanging from his hand. He places it on the dinner table with little care and goes to her room to deposit his coat.

“So sor —sorry about that,” Molly tells him, following him in like she’s going to hang up his coat.

“It’s fine,” he replies, acting like nothing could faze him. “I think we’re doing well.”

He moves past her back into the main room and exhales quietly.

With an exuberant smile, he approaches the other Hoopers and asks, “What’s for dinner?”

* * *

 

 “John,” Sherlock begins, as they’re finishing dinner.

“His best friend,” Molly adds in jovially.

“Yes, John was completely confused as to why we were stopping in to a jewelry store. He usually prefers less costly ways to impress a woman,” Sherlock snorts.

Molly rolls her eyes as her mother and sister lean in, captivated by Sherlock’s proposal story. She can’t believe she’s allowing him to tell it, but promises herself that she is jumping in at the first mention of a case or any dead bodies.

“So anyway, the lady behind the counter sees me enter and I can tell she’s still hungover from the night before. Hher lips are twitching within a minute of putting on that fake smile, but I have some fun and I start with one side of the cases, making my way up to the rings I’m really interested in,” Sherlock continues. “John’s getting antsy, but I see the one I’m getting just a shelf away. The store girl looks so relieved when I decide on the one. Of course, she rings me through with such speed—” he laughs loudly, the sound bellowing through his chest. “—and we’re both lucky the one she has left is in Molly’s size.”

“Did you have any idea?” Laurie asks, shifting to Molly.

Molly looks up, dropping the tea bag she’d been swirling around her cup.

“Huh?”

“I said did you have any idea he was going to propose?”

Molly hums, scanning Sherlock’s face closely. The real question is irrelevant, but she does consider his rather specific story, even touching over John’s irritability and Sherlock’s utter disregard for others. Molly sends Sherlock a cheeky nod before addressing her sister, “No, not really. It was sort of sudden. I was surprised more so, because he didn’t even know my ring size.”

“Scott sometimes snoops in my jewelry and such —was he so sneaky as to not get caught?”

Sherlock steps in for this, “I’m very stealth.”

Molly tuts and leans across the table and pretends to whisper to Laurie, “he’s really isn’t.”

“So you come from money, William?” Mrs. Hooper asks bluntly.

Laurie shushes her mother, very embarrassed, but Mrs. Hooper doesn’t flinch.

“A dying woman’s got the right to know her daughters taken care of living on a NHS wage.”

“I make well enough Mum.”

“Not with kids in the future.”  
Molly covers her face and disappears into her cup of tea.

“So William?” she asks again. “If not from money, what do you do?”

Sherlock is stilted, trying to decide how truthful his answers needs to be. He figures sticking close to the truth will make their charade easier, but he rarely speaks about his family with his close friends, nevermind Molly’s family.

“I’m a consultant,” he tells them, relaxed. “And as for my parents, their money is their own money.”

“A consultant of what?” Laurie speaks up, interested now too.

“I assist the NSY.”

“Oh, really?” Mrs. Hooper nods toward Laurie, another jab at Scott and his struggling private business.

“Yes,” Sherlock confirms, not catching on. “I help them on cases.”

“Anything notable?” Mrs. Hooper asks, leaning forward.

“John has a blog about it actually,” he says with much disdain.

“A blog,” Laurie states.

It’s not a question, but Sherlock confirms again.

A quizzical expression crosses Laurie’s face, but she says nothing, watching William closely.

* * *

 

 The two women admire Molly’s ring, gawking at the stones, while Sherlock takes some of their dishes over to the sink. Molly removes it from her finger and hands it to her mother, before excusing herself.

“I’ll be back,” she tells them as Sherlock re-enters the dining area. She touches his arm lightly out of habit on the way out.

Sherlock notices and senses the spot once she’s gone. Despite the kiss from earlier, every innocent touch since, feels more sensual. He considers their situation, but it’s not the touch of a fianće or girlfriend; it’s the secret they share —the on going charade that they’re pulling off. It feels sort of like an undercover case. Pure pride in simply fitting the character.

“William,” Mrs. Hooper says, bringing him out of his mind palace and back to Molly’s flat. “I need to speak with you.”

_Shite!_

“Okay,” he tries to hold a steady voice.

“I’m not an idiot, “ she begins, pulling her cup down from her mouth, “and I’m fairly observant too.”

Sherlock gulps.

“I know you and Molly—”

He grips the side of the table, mind formulating a retort.

“I know you and her are already having sex. I’m not that old to assume people these days aren’t waiting till marriage and such.”

“Wait, what?”

“I’m asking for a favour.”

“A favour,” Sherlock repeats. _About Molly and I having this supposed sex?_

“I know she’ll lie and say it’s perfectly fine, but I really don’t want her sleeping on the couch while Laurie and I are here. She’d offer to pay for a hotel room before taking anything but the couch.”

“Yeah, she would,” Sherlock agrees.

“That is why I need you to convince her to stay with you while we’re here. I don’t expect Molly to drive me to my appointments. I know she has work and Laurie is here for of me. So please, don’t mention me saying this, but so help me God if she is still here tomorrow night, William.”

“I understand,” Sherlock confirms, backing away, not expecting such ferocity from a woman with stage three breast cancer.

Molly chooses that precise moment —Sherlock stunned and her mother sending warning daggers at her fake fianće— to walk back in. She notices immediately that something has occurred in her absence, but her mother doesn’t give her or Sherlock the chance to discuss.

“Mum—”

“So wedding planning,” Mrs. Hooper cuts in. “Set a date yet?”

“A date?” Sherlock asks dumbfounded. He sputters for a moment before correcting himself. “We were thinking fall, right Molly?”

Molly is, if possible, even more at a loss for words. She’d forgotten her mother had wanted a part in it.

“Fall?” Mrs. Hooper shakes her head. “Far too late. Everyone wants a spring wedding.”  
“Mum...” Molly reaches over and rubs her mother’s arm, sighing.

In the past, her mother might have rolled her eyes at the comfort, but it’s too painfully obvious as to why she wants the ceremony earlier, even if no one’s willing to say it.

Laurie walks over to the table then, holding a small pie. “Dessert anyone?”

* * *

 

 It’s much harder to step away from the table once dessert is served. Mrs. Hooper is watching Sherlock diligently and Laurie can’t seem to shut up about Sam.

“He’s starting school next fall. Scott is worried he’ll daydream all day, but he’s a kid. I don’t worry.”

Molly smiles in acknowledgement, trying to see past her sister to the other side of the table where Sherlock is poking at the rest of his dessert. She supposes it’s the most food he’s eaten in one setting in months, maybe years.

“I should put this pie away if no one wants more,” Molly suggests, not waiting for an answer to stand from her seat.

Sherlock shovels the rest of his in, before volunteering to wash up this time. Laurie is relieved for the help and distracts Mrs. Hooper long enough for the two to get away.

“What happened?” Molly asks as soon as she has the water running in the kitchen.

“Your mother does not approve of you sleeping on the couch.”

Molly snags off a piece of saran wrap and sniffs. “I figured so. Did she suggest a hotel?”

Sherlock shakes his head, putting the dessert plates in the sink. “She wants you to stay with me.”

“Oh.” Molly stares at the half eaten pie, abashed. “Really?”

“Yes. She made it quite clear.”

“I —uh…” She stutters like old times, trying to figure out how to work around the arrangement. Staying at Meena’s or possibly a hotel is an option, but the latter is costly and she wouldn’t feel right inconveniencing her friend. On top of that, it’d have to be close to Sherlock’s incase either one of her family members came by to visit.

“Maybe, I, I don’t know,” she admits. “Could I possibly—”

Sherlock touches her forearm, like she had done earlier, and stops her ramblings.

“I’ll have John’s bed put back together by tomorrow night. Plus,” he smiles, “what could possibly make my place look lived in more?”

Molly sighs in relief and places her other hand on top of his. “Thanks, Sherlock. I know this wasn’t exactly included in the deal.”

Sherlock pulls away, eye darting to the other room. “It’s fine,” he says distracted.

He maneuvers Molly with both hands on her shoulders until she’s facing away from the living room.

“Uh, Sherlock,” she interjects.

“Mm?”

“What are you—”

“Look content,” he instructs. “No sad faces.”

Molly snickers.

“That works too.” He strains his eyes again, trying his best to look inconspicuous.

“It looks like there’s something wrong with your eye.”

He doesn’t respond, too focused on keeping watch of Molly’s sister.

“She’s still shooting us worried looks.”

“Who?” Molly scrunches up her nose, leaving her eyes partially closed in small slits.

“Your sister,” Sherlock drawls out in a whisper.

“Then do the same to her.”

“No,” he bites out.

“Where’s your content face?”

Sherlock blinks rapidly. “Your mother sees us too.”

“Does she know that we see her?”

“I don’t think so.”

“The what’s the problem?”

“I—I,” Sherlock stammers. His face goes blank for a moment before he mouths out in barely a whisper, “put the pie down.”  
Molly lowers it slowly likes she’s handling a bomb. The thin tin shell’s impact on the counter causes a chain reaction. Sherlock shoots forward, cradling Molly’s face in one hand, while his other goes for the small of her back. There’s crackle from a piece of plastic on the ground as Molly steps backwards towards the fridge. Instead of a kiss, he hides her face in the crook of his neck and angles his own head towards her —his breath coasting over the ridge of her ear. They continue walking backwards until Molly feels the warm breeze coming out of freezer at her feet. Sherlock notices the distance as well and removes his hands from her face and back, lifting her up against the stainless steel door.

Despite the lack of face to face contact, their breathing is laboured. Molly does her best to help support her weight, encircling his shoulders with both arms.

“I do believe, based on the angles I observed earlier, that none of them can see us at this time.”

Molly nods into his neck.

“Can you tell me how many tiles I am from the fridge bottom?” he asks her.

Molly tucks her chin in further and counts two.

“I amend then. None of them can see you.”

Molly smirks, letting out a hushed laugh. Despite the circumstances, Sherlock seems well collected and calm, approaching the matter with professionalism if two bodies pressed together can pass as such.

“How many seconds do couples usually kiss for like this?”

Molly shrugs. “I think it depends on the people, Sherlock.

“How many do we usually do this for then?”

The question leaves Molly’s thoughts tumbling down a dark hole, revisiting past dreams and fancies. Her face feels flushed and she wonders if he can sense this.

“I’d say another ten seconds and we’re good.”

“Good,” he replies, more strained than before.

He shifts her weight around as she starts to sink lower and Molly thinks perhaps that there’s another reason he has her so high up on his body.

“I think we’re good now,” she says, patting him on the back.

He abides after a moment and lowers her to the ground.

“You can remove your hands from my arse now as well.”

There’s colour in his cheeks for the first time in a while and with wishful thinking, Molly decides it’s not the cold weather that’s causing it.

“Are you guys finished washing up in there?” Laurie asks from the other room.

Both have forgotten the dishes and run over to turn the water off. It’s nearly over the top of the sink, tempting to flood over. They share a look of relief and start with the plates.

“We’re almost done,” Sherlock yells over his shoulder.

Molly nudges him in the side and takes a rinsed one from his hand.

“We’re actually going to need another five minutes,” he amends.

Mrs. Hooper and Laurie share a laugh in the other room, doubt now far from their mind

* * *

 

 Sleeping at Sherlock’s isn’t quite as odd as Molly had assumed. John’s old room is small, yet homey and the stairs between it and the rest of the flat give Molly a sense of space and isolation whenever Sherlock’s antics become too much for her.

Over the last couple of weeks, Lestrade had come over many times in need of help for ongoing cases. Molly knew the drill well and hid upstairs for the remainder of the DI’s visit. John and Mary were always a relief to see, giving the two a chance to interact normally around others.

She’d assumed, weeks before, that the hardest part of their lie was keeping it from her Mum and sister. While that too, left them tripped up sometimes, it was hiding the whole of it from others, that presented a challenge. On multiple occasions, coworkers had questioned their arrival at crime scenes together and the lies told each time were becoming more and more absurd. But despite the hassle, they were adjusting quite well.

“Molly!”

“What?” she replies, not bothering to move from her bed to answer him.

“Your mother rang. She’s on her way over.”

“Why?” she calls down again.

“I don’t know. She’s your mother. Ask her when she gets here.”

Molly begrudgingly rises from her bed and goes over to the old armoire to grab a set of clothes for the day. She doesn’t have work until after lunch, but her hopes of sleeping in are effectively tarnished.

Sherlock is cooking something on the stove when she comes down and for once, does not smell revolting, nor toxic.  

“Breakfast?” she asks a tad bit suspicious.

“John stressed the importance of being able to cook. Since I was assigned a salad for the dinner I thought I’d try something a little more impressive.”

“What is it?” She goes up behind him, yawning into her sleeve, and leans over to smell.

Sherlock watches her intently, grinning when she hums in approval.

“Smells good. What’s mixed in with the eggs?”

“Pork.”

“Where’d you get pork from?”

“The Thai food.”

Molly takes that moment to notice their takeaway containers from the night before, empty on the counter.

“You better dispose of these before they come over,” she warns.

Sherlock raises a brow in question. “Why?”

“This isn’t cooking; this is reheating.”

“But it’s on the stove,” he counters, discouraged.

“It unfortunately does not count,” she assures him, patting his shoulder before going to the cupboards to find her tea.

* * *

 

 “She’s late,” Molly notes, twenty minutes later as the two sit around his recently uncluttered table with their food going cold in front of them.

“I’m sure we can start without them.”

Molly huffs, jabbing a piece of the meat with her fork. “It’s not that,” she finishes, lamely. “Neither of them are taking this seriously.”

“The wedding?” Sherlock is confused.

“No. I’m afraid that’s what they’re treating with the most importance. I’m talking about her appointments. Dr. Ghosh told me she’s rarely on time and when she does get there, she doesn’t seem to care at all that this is effectively, her last option.”

Molly’s fork falls to her plate with a clatter.

“I wish I was there.”

Sherlock is never the best with these situations, having trouble treating them with the delicacy they require, but he tries.

“You are there —there for them.” He frowns, having trouble finding the right words. “You’re helping as much as possible with work on the side.”

“I’m spending too much time here. I should be helping Laurie.”

“She doesn’t need you… She uh… She needs you, but I think she can handle some stuff on her own.”

Molly looks up between sniffs, putting on a smile. She can tell the man’s struggling here, but his goof ups are actually making things a bit easier to digest.

“I think you are doing brilliantly,” Sherlock pushes. “Laurie may be doing the grunt work, but you know her and you know when to step in.”

Molly nods, pushing the cooled eggs around the plate with her finger.

“You understand people and I do not think you are coming close to failing your mother. I don’t have a lot of experience at success, but I can say that this must be it.”

“Thanks, Sherlock.” She goes to place her fingers over his hand, when she realizes how messy they are, covered in salt and pork juice. “I...” She wipes it off on a napkin. “I thank you.”

When she looks up to see his response, his eyes are staring off into space, unfocused. _Still loading._ He takes great deliberation and thought before reaching over and taking back her hand. He does his best in comforting her, running circles over the underside of her palm, and doesn’t let go until she’s ready.

Overwhelmed, Molly eases back into her chair, letting their entwined hands fall between the space in between. They remain there, hiding glances back and forth until the knocker sounds against the front door below.

“They’re coming up,” Sherlock whispers to Molly, eyes flitting from her face to their hands.

Their relationship is not a secret to Molly’s family, yet the moment seems too intimate for their charade. Something too close to become fake the moment the door opens. They both understand this and let go scooting their chairs apart.

* * *

 

 Downstairs, Mrs. Hooper and Laurie stand in the front entry to 221b. In the weeks they’d been in London, they hadn’t stopped by to visit, only requesting Molly come over some nights when Mrs. Hooper was feeling well.

An elderly woman named Mrs. Hudson closes the door behind them and welcomes them into the hall.

“You must be Mrs. Hooper,” she says patting the lady on the shoulder. “And Molly’s younger sister.”

Laurie nods with a smile. “We’re just here to see them.”

“Oh, Molly and Sherlock?” Mrs. Hudson gives them a cheeky smile. She’d been prepped beforehand on Sherlock and Molly’s arrangements, but obviously not enough.

“Molly and who?” Mrs. Hooper asks.

“Sher— Oh, I mean William.”

Mrs. Hooper doesn’t know quite what to make of this, but Laurie is all smiles, a smirk pasted on cheek to cheek.

“Come along Mum,” she says, taking the woman by the hand.

Mrs. Hooper is left in confusion while Mrs. Hudson cradles her face in her hands, sure she’d remembered all the details Sherlock had told her —minus one.

“Molly!” Laurie sings, coming up the stairs to the flat.

She opens the door to find the couple sitting together at the table with a barely touched breakfast in front of them.

“I Know we’re late,” Mrs. Hooper says behind her daughter. “We got sidetracked.”

“It’s fine, Mum.” Molly is oddly calm towards her mother and only a tad suspicious of her sister.

“Laur, what’s going on?” She could sense it the moment they walked in.

“I don’t know, why don’t we ask Sherlock?”

“Who?” Mrs. Hooper asks again, out of the loop.

Molly falls silent and nudges Sherlock in the arm.

“Yeah…” he drawls, having no idea what Molly wants to do now.

“You didn’t tell me you were engaged to the Sherlock Holmes. Oh, the press would have a field day!” She rushes over to Molly and hugs her, still sitting in the chair.

“You,” she points at Sherlock next, surprising him with a hug of his own.

Molly tries not to laugh as his awkward robot arms pat Laurie’s back lightly before pulling back.

“Who is he?” Mrs. Hooper yells out amidst the madness.”

“He’s that famous London detective, Mum.”

“Consulting detective,” Sherlock clarifies.

It fly’s over Laurie’s head, still on a high from the news.   
“What made you need to lie about this?” Laurie asks, pulling up a chair besides them.

Mrs. Hooper doesn’t understand what the big deal is and opts out for one of the comfy chairs by the fire. Molly wishes she could join her, but her sister has a tight grip on her arm.

“I don’t know,” she shrugs. “He’s not the Sherlock Holmes to me.”

Sherlock smiles before wondering if he should be offended or not. “William is my first name, actually,” he informs the sister.

“Oh, clever. Very clever.” Laurie wags her finger at him. “So what breakfast did we miss?”

“Eggs and pork,” Molly rattles off, tired.

“A bit cold,” she replies, stabbing the food left in the skillet with a fork.

“You don’t say,” Molly bites.

Sherlock takes her hand again and holds it by his side. “Relax,” he whispers, just loud enough for the two of them to hear. “They just got a little sidetracked.”

* * *

 

“A hen party? Really?” Meena sits across from Molly at Sherlock’s flat, where a consulting detective is as of yet to be known.

The fake engagement debauchery doesn’t come as a shock to Molly’s best friend, but she has her foot down for a party.

“This is crazy,” she warns her friend. “First it’s this party, then you guys are tasting cakes and looking at honeymoon destinations.”

Molly looks around, embarrassed, hoping Sherlock isn’t nearby, listening in.

“You’re in deep, Molls.”

“It’s just a little party to sate my Mum,” she explains. “You aren’t the only one that knows it’s a fake.”  
“And what’s to happen for the wedding? Will everyone at the ceremony know it’s fake as well?”   
“There won’t be a ceremony,” Molly bites back, Meena’s opinions leaving her a bit testy.

Meena looks taken back. “No ceremony?” she questions, sarcastically. “Are you two eloping?”

Molly’s had enough of her friend’s negative comments, so she stands, pacing.

“You don’t have to come. You don’t have to be any part of this. It would just be nice to have someone my own age there for support.”

“No one from Barts is coming?” she asks seriously this time.

Molly shakes her head vehemently. “No. No. Absolutely not. Friends and family are one thing, but I am not letting this charade get any further —especially into my work life.”

“So it’s just me and your Mum and sis’? Bit naff, don’t you think?”

“Mary’s coming and Sherlock’s invited his mother too—”

“Oh! She’s part of this now, too?”

Molly shoots daggers at her friend and continues, “and some childhood friends from back home too… So add them to the list of people that don’t know.”

Meena harrumphs, shaking her head. “I’ll applaud you two if all of this actually goes off without a snag.”

“Thanks. I think,” Molly mutters.

“What happens when all is done and your sister still thinks you’re getting married to fucking Sherlock Holmes?”

“I’ll tell her the truth,” Molly states, sure of herself. “She’ll understand it was for Mum.”

“Alright, I’ll come. But I can’t promise I’ll behave,” she teases. “Where is that daft man, anyways?”

“Hiding,” Molly laughs.

“He’s afraid of me ever since I told him off.”

“Yes. I think so. Please none of that at the party.”

Meena loops the strap of her purse around her wrist and watches it unravel. “ Nothing but happy, humiliating words about the couple, I assure you.”

* * *

 

 It’s Mrs. Hudson’s yapping from downstairs that alerts Molly of her Mum’s presence first. It’s eight o’clock in the morning on a Sunday —not a time normal people would come by Sherlock’s place and stop in the front hall for a chat.

“I’ll just let you in,” she hears Mrs. Hudson say, climbing the stairs.

In a flash, Molly’s breakfast is deserted on the table, as she tails it for Sherlock’s room.

“Yoo-hoo,” she hears, having safely made it into the man’s room.

It’s a bit messy, compared to its usual state, with a pair of trousers and dress shirt piled on his chair and a shopping bag knocked over in the corner.

Without warning him first, she pulls back the covers on the opposite side of the bed, and slides in beside him, scooting closer until they’re a reasonable distance apart.

“Must be sleeping,” Mrs Hudson comments, padding around the living area.

“It’s time for church though,” Mrs. Hooper states matter-of-fact. “I’m not going alone.”

As the front door closes and Mrs. Hudson goes back downstairs, Sherlock begins to stir. He stretches out his arm, barely missing Molly, and turns over towards her, exposing his bare chest.

It’s paler than as she remembers it, but still very fine indeed.

A knock at the bedroom door breaks the thought and she pokes Sherlock in the shoulder with her finger.

“Shhh,” she mouths as his eyes open slowly.

There’s this pleasant little smile on his face, his lips stretching wide. He reaches out and touches her face, running his hand past her ears until there’s another knock. Molly’s eye are wide and her pulse rapid.

“Sherlock,” she mouths, trying to snap him out of this early morning daze, but he just lies down, drifting back to sleep.

Molly does the only thing she can think of and answers, “Yes, Mum?”

“We have church in less than an hour, Molly.”

“Can’t Laurie come with you? Where is she now?”

“She had a late night, I —I had wasn’t feeling well last night and she got hardly any sleep.”

Molly sighs loudly, causing Sherlock to finally stir.

Mrs. Hooper, still waiting for an answer, pokes her head in with her eyes closed. “Are you decent?”

“Just slightly,” she replies, berating herself for such a nonsensical answer.

“Just slightly what?” Sherlock decides to join the conversation late, taking his time to catch up.

Molly points fervently towards the door, piecing the situation together. Sherlock’s mouth makes an _o,_ glancing down at his state of undress and over to Molly, already in jeans and a jumper.

“I’m not talking to you through this door, Molly,” Mrs. Hooper speaks up again. “I’m coming in, in ten seconds, whether you’re ready or not.”

Molly just stares at Sherlock, a look of horror etched into her face. _I don’t know what to do,_ clearly evident in the stress lines on her forehead.

In lightning speed, Sherlock observes every current detail out of place. He pulls the covers, kicked earlier to the end of the bed, over himself and Molly, and slides her jumper sleeves and bra straps down past her shoulder. Her hair is too perfect, just recently brushed, so he teases it with his hands, carding his fingers through the back until it’s messy. Finally, just as the door begins to creep open, he runs her hand down his chest, making her face hot and flustered.

“Church,” her mother says stepping into the room. “We’re leaving in 10 minutes.”

Molly nods, upper lip curled into the bottom one.

“And take a shower first,” she nods towards the two in bed, before closing the door.

Molly lets out a brief sigh of relief, craning her neck up to smile at Sherlock. Still holding her hand against him, he lets go, running it back through his hair. It takes her a moment to pull back, still coming down from the adrenaline high.

“That was close,” she says, blowing a breath of warm air out in relief.

He leans down closer to her, and replies with a barely audible _yes._

“Well, she’s gone now.” Molly flings the covers forward, pulling her jumper and bra straps back over shoulder.

“You coming?” she asks him, standing at the foot of the bed.

He nods with a hum, propping himself up on his elbows. “I’ll uh… I’ll be out in a couple minutes. I’ve got to take care of something first,” he insists.

Molly leaves him be and walks out to greet her mother, who also has an unintended surprise.

* * *

 

“I don’t know of any churches around here,” Molly notes as their cab begins to slow down, pulling into a small strip of shops.

Mrs. Hooper is beaming, no longer hiding her excitement. “We’re not actually going to church, Molly. “

She’s stunned for a second, before a woman opens their door outside.

“We thought we’d surprise you,” Laurie says, helping Molly out.

“Surprise me with what?” she asks, apprehensively.

“Ta-da!” Laurie steps out of the way, revealing a dress shop with floor length gowns on display just behind the glass.

“I know you said not to worry about the dress, that’d you’d get it later, but come on,” Laurie complains. “We have to do this. All together.”

Molly scrunches her nose. Her mother has more colour, seems more alive today than she’s been in weeks. But Molly can’t let them pay for a dress that’s never going to see the light of day.

“I can’t let you do this, guys,” she begs them.

They’re not listening though and are already steps ahead, swinging the shop door open, nearly jumping with giddiness. Molly sends a text to Mycroft with the shop name and address. With any luck, he’ll pull some strings and keep her family from dropping hundreds of pounds they can’t afford.

 

“We need to see another strapless,” Laurie claps, shooing Molly back into the dressing room.

Molly concedes and trudges back, pulling the train behind her. If not for the fact that she’d never wear any of these, the shopping might’ve been more enjoyable. But all that’s running through her mind is whether Mycroft will respond back in time and how women keep these things up for hours at a time. The gowns are heavy and bitch to get out of. Molly wishes Mary would have warned her for that.

The next three the assistant brings out are just as gaudy and flouncy as the last set. Molly sits down inside her dressing room and checks her phone again before the next dress. No messages.

“Okay, what else do you have for me?” Molly whines.

She pulls the curtain away, only clad in her knickers and bra, to see Sherlock standing quite out of place in the back room of a dress shop, carrying a gown himself.

“What are you doing here?” she asks under her breath, walking up and kissing him on the cheek to keep up appearances.

“Mycroft got your message.”  
“And?”

“And he’s sent me here with the solution. He says he doesn’t do _leg work_.”

“Oh.”

Sherlock turns to greet the Hoopers, shaking their hands once again.

“Nice to see you all dressed up,” Mrs. Hooper jokes.

Sherlock goes pale and diverts attention away from himself by presenting the dress.

“I know I said this one was too costly, but I figured we can go cheaper on the tuxes,” Sherlock says in the most sly voice Molly is sure he’s ever used. She can almost taste the dulce dripping from his tongue. “I had it ordered last week and it finally got here.”

“Well let’s see it then,” Mrs. Hooper says in a rush.

Laurie merely stares intently up at Molly’s fake fianće, biting her thumbnail between her teeth.

As Molly takes the dress from Sherlock, she mouths a terse _thank you,_ before disappearing behind the curtain once more.

This one, to Molly’s relief, is much lighter than the others. It’s mostly shoulderless with tiny sleeves draping over her upper arms and a sweetheart neckline that’s modest enough for her taste. The rest of the dress sweeps down and out to back with clean lines and a satin finish. Molly loses herself in it, twirling in front of the mirror.

“Does it fit?” Laurie asks.

“Let’s see it,” Mrs. Hooper says.

“I’ll get out of the way. Don’t want to see my bride in her wedding dress before the wedding,” Sherlock says, excusing himself.

The way he says it, so him, so unlike his William façade, leaves Molly sick to her stomach. Amidst the oohs and ahhs, Molly can barely emit a smile. _Whose dress even is this?_ she wonders. _Not mine._

* * *

 

 Molly doesn’t understand why she needs to be this dressed up for a fake hen party, but she humours Laurie, digging through the back of her closet to find something.

Her mother and sister insist on her dressing at Sherlock’s, though she’s picking them up at her own flat. She knows why deep down —those sly smiles as they admire the dress she’s picked out.

Molly sits down on her bed, a few minutes before she’s planning on leaving, and slides on a pair of cute brown pumps to match her navy blue contour dress. The whole ensemble is ridiculous, but it’s one night she figures. Couldn’t hurt.

Sherlock hears her coming down and calls up.

“Hey, Molly?”

“Yeah,” she answers, more focused on not tripping down the steep staircase.

“I have these tickets for the symphony. Mycroft _lost_ them by giving them to me so he wouldn’t have to take Mummy. I was wondering if you’d like to go?” he asks.

It’s possibly the most unsure of himself the man has ever been.

“I can’t,” Molly admits, uncomfortable for turning him down the one time he wants to actually spend time away from Baker St with her.

“You have a date?” he asks, trying to make a joke.

Molly frowns, turning the corner. “Funny,” she bites out. “I actually have that hen party tonight.”

Sherlock doesn’t even nod in acknowledgment, watching the clicking of her heels as she crosses the hall. His eyes follow up to her dress and finally the light make-up covering her cheeks and eyelids. He makes no comment to point this out.

“I shouldn’t be out late,” she tells him, searching for her light jacket.

“Right,” he replies, tossing the tickets in the rubbish bin.

* * *

 

 Molly is relieved to see the destination of her hen party as their limo pulls up in front of a bar on the waterfront. In all her time living in the city, she’s never, not once, ever heard of the place. Inside, the room is partially lit with booth seating lining an open room of tables and chairs. At the front, an empty stage sits in the dark —the outlines of stage equipment barely visible.

Laurie barely sits down, before going up to the bar to order drinks. It reminds Molly of the sort of place Laurie would frequent back home. Tonight, on a Tuesday, in the middle of her work week, the place is pretty empty. Older couples chat at the bar and a group of younger girls occupy the only other reserved booth in the opposite corner.

“Here’s to my older sis, finally tying the knot,” Laurie says, handing everyone a glass of questionable liqueur.

Meena looks very uneasy, but the others play along, clinking their glasses together.

“So tell us, Molly, away from the man himself, how did you pull the Sherlock Holmes?”

Meena snorts and Mary looks like she may inhale her drink through her nose.

“Well, we work together, as you know.”

“I still can’t believe that.” Her sister leans forward across the table on her elbows.

“And I asked him out for coffee one afternoon and he said yes.”

“Yeah, but this is Sherlock we’re talking about here, Molly,” Meena joins in. “How did you warm the cold robot man’s heart?”  
Molly steps on Meena’s foot with her heel and glares at her across the table.

“He’s not as robotic as he would seem. It’s a front. Once you stop falling for that act, he’s like a lost boy.”

“A boy?” one of the girls from back home asks, perturbed.

“Well, not lost like that…” Molly thinks, remembering the day they went dress shopping —the way he knew exactly how to make her flustered.

“So how did you fall for him?” Mrs. Holmes asks this time.

She has that all knowing motherly look upon her face and for the first time that night, Molly understands that this is a genuine question. It makes her take another gulp of her drink.

“It’s not about how I fell for him. I fell for him because he’s secretly kind and very passionate and has faith in those he’s trusts —will put his life in their hands. It’s not about how I fell —it’s about when. And when I did, I just waited for him to fall too.

There’s a mixture of smiles around the table. Her mother’s and sister’s are full of joy and warmth, while some of the others, the ones that know the truth, are filled with this empathetic pity.

Molly stands from their table ready for another drink. _Why couldn’t I be a guy and just get strippers?_ she wonders. _This situation would never happen to a guy._

* * *

 

 “Turned you down, little brother?” Mycroft asks over the telephone that night.

Sherlock doesn’t have to answer for him to know the truth.

“It’s not what you think, Mycroft. She had made prior plans.”

“And it’s not what you think either, is it?”

“What do you mean?” Sherlock grips the phone tighter, standing up straight in his chair.

“Come off it, Sherlock. We both know why you agreed to help Ms. Hooper.”

“Because I owed her a—”

“No,” Mycroft cuts in. “Try again.”

“I think, not,” Sherlock replies bluntly. “Why did you phone again?”

“Mummy called me. Wants to know if the bloke I gave the tickets to is enjoying the symphony.”

“Well you have your answer now don’t you?”

“I’m afraid I do.” There’s a pause, then shuffling in the background. “Careful now, Sherlock.”

“I always am,” he replies, before hanging up.

* * *

 

 It’s another two hours before Molly comes back, barreling up the stairs, making two stops on her way up.

Sherlock stands, leaving his mind palace, and goes to fill a glass of water for her. He is most ardently aware of the effects of heavy alcohol consumption.

“Sherlock,” she yells on the other side of the door.

He opens it for her, and ushers her inside. The heels she’d been holding in her hand drop to the floor and she sets her purse down on the table beside them. With only a queer smile for a warning, she pulls at his house coat lapels, dragging himself and the glass of water with him. It spills over the edges a bit and Sherlock spends most of his efforts to keep it up right.

“Molly, Molly,” he tries settling.

Her breath smells of tequila and citrus and he takes in quite a woof of it as she leans closer to him, resting her cheek against his neck.

She doesn’t make landfall with her lips though, as he’s pulling her back and holding the glass out for her.

“Drink this,” he tells her, holding the glass up her lips.

She takes a sip without holding it herself and smiles mischievously.

“Hold it in both hands, Molly.”

She takes it with one and sets it down on the counter, abandoning it.

“But no, see, I realized what would make this charade even more convincing.”

“Molly,” he tries reasoning with her.

“They even gave me some tips for the wedding night,” she purrs, causing him to trip on the front door mat.

She sticks a hand out to help him out, despite being very much drunk herself. He accepts, only to keep her calm and uses most of his strength to pick himself back up.

“Maybe we’ll save that for another time,” he tries, backing his way towards his bedroom. Stairs are out of the question, but just maybe if he can corral her towards a flat surface, she might fall asleep.

“But we’ll need practice.”

“No. I think we’ll be just fine.”

They’re at the open door across from the bathroom, when she stops following him, resting her hand against the frame. She watches him closely, like she’s undressing him from the other side of the room.

“Why are you holding back?” she asks quietly.

She hiccups, pressing a hand to her throat, and tries swallowing it away.

“You should sleep first and then we’ll talk.”

“Sleeping? Sleeping is a bore. You hardly ever sleep.”

“I do sometimes,” he reasons.

“Rarely,” she amends. “I come down sometimes for water and there you are still up —usually in that mind palace of yours, though. The faces you make —looks more like a battlefield than a palace.”

Sherlock doesn’t know how to reply to that. He does not wish to burden her with the horrors of his mind and the reasons behind the grief.

“For once, can’t you let the outside world slip away?” she asks.

His answer is quick and forthcoming. “It’s not just the outside that burdens me. That is why I can’t as you say, let it slip away. I’d slip away to nothing.”

“And what peace that would be.” She slinks to the ground, still hiccuping, and rests her head against the door.

“Time for bed,” he states, more forceful this time. He goes over to her and picks her up, much like he’d done when she’d first came over to discuss their charade. This time however, she is not yet asleep in his arms. She paws clumsily at his face, tracing the lines of his cheekbones and neck.

“Lay down, I’ll be back in with your water,” he instructs once she’s spread out on his bed.

Her eyes follow him out the door, before closing. When he gets back, he is met with hushed breathing, the gentle rise and fall of her dress laden chest. He pulls the covers out from under her and drapes them up to her chin.

“Alcohol,” he snorts, before closing the door.

* * *

 

 “So how was the hen party?” Sherlock asks the next morning as Molly makes her way out of the bedroom with the glass from last night, empty.

She shoots him a piercing glance, before refilling it under the sink.

“What?” He shrugs, closing his laptop and tossing it on the couch.

“I didn’t ask about what happened after.”

“I know. I thought Mary might have told you how disastrous it was.” She comes back to the living area and takes a seat on the arm of his chair. “What did you mean by after?” she asks between sips.

“Nothing. Nothing at all.” Sherlock presses.

“Sherlock!”

She lowers the glass from her face. Shadows under her eyes from her mascara and eyeliner make her look worse for show.

“You were very drunk. I put you to bed.”

“Mhm?” She doesn’t fully believe him, but he’s being especially forth holding of information this morning, so she assumes it’s a mood.

“So what made the hen party so terrible? I thought lots of women ingesting copious amounts of alcohol and talking about men behind their back would be enjoyable for you.”

“You’d think,” Molly replies glumly, slipping over the arm and into the seat cushion. “They liked to pry a lot.”  
“Your sister is the they you are referring to?”

“Oh, yes. Partially. I’m mainly thinking Meena though.”

“Meena.” His face goes serious for a moment, unmoving.

“Yes, she thought it funny to ask unnecessarily nosy questions last night.”

“Oh? That bad?”

“Well, yes,” Molly complains, filling up her glass again and going to sit down next him. “Her questions weren’t too too bad at the beginning, but after a few drinks…” Molly clears her throat.

“What? What?” Sherlock asks a little too enthusiastically.

Molly shakes her head. “No, no. I couldn’t tell you.”

“I spoke on the phone with Mycroft for nearly fifteen minutes last night. Sometimes it’s nice to hear how common people speak.”

Molly shakes her head at him and pokes a finger into her glass, flicking droplets of water at him. They land on his face and he wipes them off without a thought.

“So, what questions?”

Molly blushes before she’s even got the words out. “Stuff like how many times a week and you know, somekinkyshit.”

“Sorry?” he asks, not following.

“You know…” She waggles her eyebrows, causing Sherlock to chortle.

“Sex! She asked how many time a week we have sex.”

“We don’t have any sex,” Sherlock replies quickly, alarmed.

“I know and Meena knows —that’s why she asked me, to get a reaction out of it.”

“Why didn’t you just lie?”

“Well I did.” Molly rubs the glass between her hands. “I just felt uncomfortable answering them.

“Oh…”

“Yeah.”

“Because you want to have sex with me?”

Molly pushes him away, appalled. “What!”

“I could be wrong. My deductions aren’t 100%, but they’re usually right”

“As are mine,” she replies flustered, yet somehow still very intimidating.

“You don’t make deductions,” he states with certainty.

“I don’t? Really? How would you know? Maybe I just don’t say them all out loud, flapping my mouth about.”

“So tell me, Molly, what deductions have you made?”

“I can’t just name them off the top of my head. They just happen day to day.”

“Well name one from this day.”

Molly crosses her arms in front of her, feeling powerful, despite being dressed in the same outfit from last night.

“You want to have sex with me too.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely.”

“Well, I’m sorry to say, Hooper, but your deductions just aren’t as spot on as mine.”

“Fine.”

“See?”

“No.” Molly pouts. She doesn’t know what else to say, lest where to run.

“You are still a great pathologist.”

“Don’t compliment me, I’m not done.”

“Okay…” He holds his hands up in defense.

“I amend: You have wanted to have sex with me.”

“When?” He stands, holding his arms bent at the elbow and paces the room.

“The other day.” She waves vaguely.

“That’s not specific enough.”

“So there’s been multiple instances, not just one?”

“I didn’t say that,” Sherlock counters. “You’re twisting my words, Hooper.”

“I must get that from you,” she replies with a smile. “Too much time at Baker St and I’m turning into another Sherlock Holmes.

They circle each other, like birds of prey.

“Oh, but I didn’t tell you the best part about the party!”

“Oh?” he mocks, screwing his face up like a troublesome child.

“I got gifts. Many gifts. Many interesting gifts.”

“No more books on decapitation I hope.” He goes and picks up the replacement book she left. “Thank god it was replaced by this page turner.” He holds up an old copy of _The Beautiful and the Damned,_ then drops it back on the coffee table with a thud.

“It’s quite fitting,” Molly murmurs, retreating up the stairs to her room with her things. She’s glad John isn’t here to witness this. He’d probably be hiding in the corner for hours.

* * *

 

 It isn’t until late that night that the two see each other again. Sherlock comes back from being away most of the day and finds Molly sitting at the table with an empty mug of tea. Her phone sits in her lap, the screen lighting up her face as she scrolls through some social media app.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” he speaks, causing both of them to jump at the break of silence.

Molly hums in response, uttering a quiet apology as well.

“You owe me a second one,” she tells him, not letting her eyes stray from the screen.

“Sorry,” he tries again.

She seems content with this and stands, heading for the stairs.

“I’m also sorry about the book comment and the gifts.”

“Spend some time with John?”

Sherlock laughs breathlessly. “Yes.” She knows him too well.

“Molly.” He stops her before she hits the stairs. “I am trying.”

“I know,” she answers, but it’s still not good and he knows it.

“Show me the gifts you got.”

“You don’t have to Sherlock.” She stretches her arms over her head and fake yawns. ‘I know you mean it. You don’t have to.”

“Please,” he asks in the smallest voice possible.

She concedes, grabbing a bag from the door and lugs it over to the couch.

“Some of them are gag gifts, okay?”

He nods and begins taking them out one by one. A few elicit a chuckle while some cause him to gape, unaware the products existed. A few even interest him, for purely scientific reasons of course.

“What’s in the other bag?” he asks when they get to the bottom.

“Oh, nothing from the party,” she supplies.

Sherlock’s counted seven gifts, but he knows eight attended the hen party with her.

“I’m pretty sure it is,” he replies.

Molly bites her lip, considering, before going over and retrieving it.

“This gem is obviously from Meena,” she says, cringing as he pulls the offending item out of the bag.

It’s black and lacy with corset and stockings that clip onto the bodice. The intricacy has Sherlock puzzled for a moment, before he straightens it out and clears his throat.

“Yeah…” Molly rubs her forehead with her hand, pursing her lips.

“Molly?”

“Yeah,” she looks up, eye raised in curiosity.

“I lied,” he admits.

“Well, yeah, no shit Sher… you —we both lied.”

“No, no. I mean this morning. I lied.”

“—About after the hen party?”

“—About your deduction,” they say at the same time.

Sherlock is the only one to continue after, though. “You were right. I have thought about it.”

He looks down at the offending garment, ashamed, and pats the lace, sitting on his lap.

“Would you say no this time?” she asks.

Flashbacks from the night before cross his mind —of course never forgotten, stored away in his mind palace. He runs through them again, reliving the smells and sounds and images.

“Would you?” She breaks him from the trance, hands quivering in her lap.

He places his own on top off them and shakes his head no.

“No. I don’t think I would,” he replies.

She nods, still looking down, but starts to raise her head, when he repeats himself.

“Good,” she hums, before placing both hands on his chest.

The last 8 inches are the longest 8 inches she’s ever crossed. It feels entirely different from their exchanges in front of her Mum and sister —slower than all of them too. Each in the past was quick with little warning. This one has anticipation. The chance to pull back at any moment. It’s risky. So many things could happen to stop it, but they continue to descend upon each other until theirs contact.

At contact, there’s a snap, a change of pace, a reaction. They’ve crossed the boundary, showing intimate affection away from prying eyes. They’ve crossed that line. Fistfulls of his shirt, encapsulated within her hands, friction from his against her pajama top, sliding the material, desperately, up and down her arm.

Then skin. There’s been a lack of that. They go for it like animals to water in a desert so deprived, it hasn’t rained for years. When not enough is attainable, clothing hits the floor —a real marker of a lived in flat— with bodies soon to follow.

The couch is too small. Space is too limited, they stretch out , spanning the throw rug. Cream coloured carpet threads rubbing up against cream coloured bodies.

The cool living room air begins to sneak into the most coveted of places, robbing them of heat, forcing them to create more. They cover the cold, create friction. An act of true scientific method. The research is laid, they’ve lain in it for too long. Every held stare, every touch and touch unattained. It’s greedy, but they’re mutualistic beings, prospering off the other’s success.

She finds it first, a building monsoon —Sherlock the quaking force beneath her, within her, surrounding her. She rides the wave out as it washes ashore, devastating and not likely to be forgotten.

When Sherlock finds her, miles gone, there’s a pride in accomplishment. Aftershocks. And the threat of another soon to come.

* * *

 

 “Sherlock,” she begins, marching down the stairs half dressed the next day —her jeans undone, with only a towel covering the rest of her. “Have you moved my laundry basket again?”

She steps around the corner, hearing him milling about around the kitchen, when she sees Greg, holding one of Mrs. Hudson’s scones between his teeth, stockstill.

“Oh.”

She doesn’t say anything further and tries to back away from the room as inconspicuous as possible. When she gets back to the hall, she makes a beeline for Sherlock’s room and closes the door behind her.

“Oh, yes, Graham is here, I forgot to tell you,” he mentions with his back turned to her. He can hear her deep breaths, obviously startled by the DI’s unexpected visit. “Did you say anything to him?”

He turns around to face her then and takes in her attire: the jeans half-buttoned, the towel over her chest, and her tair still wet in a bun on her head.

“Oh.”

“Yeah…”

Sherlock’s eyes flit from the towel to the door and back to the stack of papers he’d gotten together for the detective. They repeat the process over and over until Molly steps in.

“There could be many reasons why I am indeed here, showering, right?”

Sherlock nods, eyes casted away from her. “Yes, but the fact that you’ve run in here, half dressed, speaks highly against any of those.”

He motions to her towel, partly exposing her back, and goes to retrieve a shirt for her.

“One moment.”

He pops across the hall to find one, then ducks back in.

“Here,” he tosses the camisole towards her and sits down on his bed, facing away.

“Did Greg say anything to you?”

“Who? Lestrade? Oh. No. He was still having trouble finishing that scone. I’m afraid you’ve left him pertrified.”

“Oh,” she mutters again, throwing the towel on his bed before slipping the shirt over her head. “Should I go out there and see if he’s alright?”

Sherlock chuckles. “I think he’s more than alright.”

Molly cocks her head. “Funny,” she murmurs. “But what do we do still? I can’t just go back out and pretend it’s nothing.”

“Why not?” Sherlock proposes, turning back around and picking the damp towel off his bed sheets.

“It’s —It’d be…” Molly crosses her arms in front of her chest and ponders the decision. “It could work.”

“Make any alternative seem preposterous. He isn’t the type to pry.”

With two matching, smug smiles, Sherlock and Molly emerge from the bedroom. He, with his stack of papers, delivers them to the DI and she, with only a light shirt on, carries her basket of clothes upstairs. They’re nearly home free, no questions asked, when Lestrade holds up a pair of pants from the end of his pen.

“I heard from Stamford you guys were doing some fake fianće type shite, but I’m not sure you fully grasp the fake part.” He drops the pair of pants to the floor and smirks. “But don’t take my word for it. I am a blabbering excuse for a NSY detective.”

Sherlock avoids eye contact and hands him the papers.

“Thanks for these, Sherlock,” he tips his hat at him, “And your top is entirely see through Molly.”

“Are kidding me Sherlock?” Lestrade hears from the hall.

“I didn’t know.”

* * *

 

 Over the next few days more and more services begin to call the couple at 221b Baker St. When she’s not in the hospital, Mrs. Hooper hasn’t wasted any time, calling florists, wedding halls, and caterers.

“I thought your brother was going to take care of this?” Molly asks after hanging up with a woman from Wimbley.

“He can’t take care of things your mother initiates. I thought you told her that my family was covering those costs?”

Molly huffs. I did, but I guess she isn’t listening.”

“Well, that makes two of you,” Sherlock mutters.

“What?” Molly rounds the corner on him, stopping him from leaving the flat.

“We have 85 chicken plates arriving here in 4 weeks for a wedding that isn’t supposed to happen and all you have to say is that it wasn’t your brother’s fault?”

Sherlock smirks. “I never did response to that bit of information in particular. Of course, I could freeze them all and save them for later.”

Molly stares up at him glaring, wanting to wipe that smug grin off his face right then and there.

“Can you cancel them?” he asks.

Molly laughs sarcastically. “Tried that. We only get a partial refund because they’ve already begun to make them. Like who starts preparing chicken four weeks before?”

Sherlock settles Molly, holding onto her shoulders. “If I promise to get Mycroft to cover the difference, can we stop arguing and make out on the couch?”

He gives her that innocent boyish grin and she caves, vowing to one day resist the charms of Sherlock Holmes.

“When does your mother think the wedding is?” Sherlock asks between kisses, pulling her down onto his lap.

“June something,” she replies, with disinterest. “And it’s a fake, not happening wedding.”

“Naturally,” he replies, flipping her over.

He’s got her top button undone, when one of their mobiles begins to buzz in the kitchen. They let it go to voicemail, but the persistent little bugger of a caller isn’t having it and tries twice more.

“I’ll get it,” Molly says on the third ring, pulling down her shirt and freeing herself from Sherlock’s grip.

“Hello?” she answers.

It’s her Mum. She covers the receiving end and tells Sherlock, watching as he sinks into the couch with a frown.

“What’s she want?” he asks in a groan.

“When the engagement party is…”

“There’s an engagement party?”

They exchange looks of confusion, before Molly takes the phone with her and continues talking in the other room.

* * *

 

 The dinner settings may all say the Hooper-Holmes wedding, but there isn’t a time during their charade that has felt more like a ruse than today. Molly goes up to check on Sherlock in the main house that overlooks the vineyard while guests begin to file in.

“I didn’t know your family owned one of these,” she says, knocking at the door.

“Co-owned,” he corrects, fixing his tie.

She walks over to the window facing the whole set up below, clicking her tongue.

“How did we get this far?” she asks rhetorically.

She twirls the engagement ring around her finger like a toy.

“I forgot to ask, did you ever find the University pimps?”

He can sense she’s trying to lighten the conversation, but it’s not helping. He can’t even fasten his cufflinks properly.

“Let me,” she steps in. “I was the one to remove these earlier.”

This gets a smirk out of him finally, but something about her proximity pains him. She has his arm securely under her elbow and has got the first of two in, when he pulls away from her.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he admits.

“Put on cufflinks?” Molly replies, confused.  

“No,” he ducks away, almost ashamed. “I can’t do this fake marriage.”

“You can’t or you don’t want to?”

Her question is slow and drawn out. Each individual word separated with a pause so long that he can’t help but spill into the end of her sentence.

“I physically, mentally, cannot, Molly.” He pulls at the sides of his neck, stretching long and narrows fingers down to his collarbone.

“Being fake married to me is so hard for you, isn’t it?” she asks, voice cracking.

“Yes. It is,” he replies blatantly.

He leaves the room without his coat and thunders down the stairs into the courtyard. Molly is right on his heels, shoes clicking like a horse in canter as they cross the pavilion. A whole mass of guests in line for food notice the commotion and stop grabbing at the hors d’oeuvres for a moment.

“Why can’t you just hold out a few more weeks?” she asks.

“What? Until we’re married?”

She wants to shrink into her beige dress, hide amongst the layers in the skirt. All eyes are on them —there’s no recovery. Not if he won’t calm down.

“We’ll stall,” she says, attempting to lower her voice.

“You don’t get it though,” he says just as loud as before. “I can’t fake this anymore.”

_Well that cat’s out of the bag._

“I can’t keep pretending.”

“You don’t have to,” she sniffs. “There’s the door —well there’s no door, but you get my point…” she trails off.

Sherlock balls his fists inside his trousers and walks swiftly back over to her.

“Can we talk about this later?” he asks, finally lowering his voice.

It’s too late though, of course, everyone has heard. Everyone is waiting for the verdict.

“Why can’t you pretend anymore?” She asks a final time.

“Because we haven’t been pretending. Not for a while.”

Molly holds her hands up to her face, index fingers wiping at the corners of her eyes. Sherlock can’t stand to watch Molly cry. So he leaves.

 

 

_June_

 

“If you’re getting sick, I am too, “ Sherlock says, grabbing some digestives from Molly.

They sit and chew the stale biscuits in silence, both watching the swinging doors to the operating room every few minutes.

“It wasn’t your fault,” she finally speaks up when there’s only crumbs left.

“I know. But we had awful timing.”

“We did,” she concedes.

He takes the bag from her hands and gets up to throw it away. When he returns, he doesn’t sit back down, just stands in front of her, waiting.

“Are we going to discuss this?” he asks.

This evidently strikes a chord with her, because her voice gets shrill when she answers.

“Discuss our fake relationship while my Mum gets out of surgery?” She stabs a finger at his chest. “Discuss you running away in the middle of the engagement party?” She stabs again, this time lower. “Or discuss how you lied to me for weeks, never telling me that it bothered you so much.”

He blocks her this time.

“It was only for days that it bothered me,” he corrects.

His retorts aren’t helping and she goes to find a different place to wait.

“Molly,” he follows on her heels, looming over her, yet looking so small. “I know it’s not ideal, but we’ve got time.”

“I want to be ready when they have news.”  
He stomps his foot into the linoleum, grinding it in place. “And I’m ready to drop whatever conversation we’re having when that happens.”

“Have you considered I’m avoiding you so I don’t have to deal two heart breaks at once?” she asks, turning on him.

“It doesn’t have to be two. It might not even be one.”

He steps toward her cautiously and wraps his arms around her shoulders. Despite her anger, her body moves into his, tears soaking his dress shirt and tie.

“Sorry,” she apologizes, when she steps back to look at him. “And sorry I got you into this whole mess. I could have gone with an escort.”

She snorts. He laughs.

“They’re way too expensive for a good one,” he says.

“I would have asked you for the money.”

He shrugs —a nonverbal touché.

“I didn’t want to marry you, not because I wouldn’t want to.. someday,” he begins, never thinking he’d ever utter those words. “I wanted it to be real. 100% real. I wanted to try at least.”

“Really?” Molly pulls her cardigan around her sleeveless dress and hugs it tight to her chest.

“Yeah.” He rubs at his neck, running through the curls at the nape of it.

“This isn’t just because you’re trying to make up for all the horrible stuff you’ve said before? Replace it with really nice —really amazing stuff?”

Sherlock shakes his head no, pulling Molly back in towards him, feeling her tiny body against his frame. He doesn’t think he evers wants to let that feeling go.

“Dr. Hooper?” A man stands just outside of the doors, head swiveling around the nearly empty waiting room for Molly.

She rubs her eyes again and approaches him, dragging Sherlock behind her by the hand.

“Your mother is out of surgery,” he begins.

Sherlock can feel Molly’s squeeze getting tighter and tighter.

“She had a malignant growth around her heart. A side of effect of the breast cancer.”

“But it wasn’t the same tumor?”

“No,” the doctor shakes his head. “Part of it was preventing normal blood flow, affecting her heart’s natural electrical signals.”

“And?” Molly nearly cuts off all blood flow to Sherlock’s hand.

“And we removed that part safely. We need to get her in for a mastectomy as soon as she recovers, but she’s doing okay right now.”

Molly can’t help the tears fighting their way out again. “Can we see her?”

“Just family,” the doctor instructs.

“He’s my fianće.” She points at Sherlock. “That fine?”

Whether the doctor is truly fine with it or just scared of Molly’s reaction, he does gives them the right away, letting the two pass as Molly pulls Sherlock back past the double doors.

 

Her mother appears so peaceful, breathing in and out with the oxygen cannulas hooked under her nose. Recently under the anesthesia, she takes a moment to come to, finally opening her eyes when Molly sits down beside her and takes her hand.

“Where’s Laurie?” Mrs. Hooper asks, scanning the room.

“She’s been praying. First time in years,” Molly says with a grin. “Someone’s been sent down to get her. I couldn’t wait.”  
Mrs. Hooper gives a dopey smile, trying to keep her eyes open.

“Whatever they’ve given me feels great,” she tells Molly, drawing her close in a loud whisper. “Can you get this stuff, since you’re almost a doctor.”

Molly ignores the comment and pats her mother’s hand.

“I’ll try,” she says trying to keep a straight face.

“Did they tell you the news, you have at least three more years to put up with me. Once I get these suckers removed anyway.”

Sherlock covers his face, laughing, while Molly turns away towards him, silently telling him to not encourage her.

“This is no laughing matter,” Mrs. Hooper continues. “I have extended my deadline, but that still means you only have three years left.”

“For what?”

“To get married, hun.”

“Mum,” she lowers her voice in a soothing tone. “We weren’t actually engaged.”

“I know sweetheart.” she pats Molly’s hand and looks to the door. “Will you figure out where you sister’s gone. Might’ve gotten lost in the place.”

Molly leans over and kisses her mother on the forehead, before going back in the hall.

“Sherlock.” Mrs. Hooper motions for him to come to the side of her bed.

He follows, hands jammed into his pockets and sits down in the chair.

“I’m glad surgery went well,” he says with a straight face.  

“I am too, but listen.” She takes out the cannulas for a second to speak clearer. “You have three years to do this properly. Okay? Three years!”

Sherlock nods earnestly, his curls bouncing up and down like springs.

“ _10 06 2017_. I want a wedding invitation, Mr. Holmes.”

The lady strikes more fear in him than his own mother, but he knows he’ll be fine, it is after all, only June —the year is completely irrelevant.


End file.
